


By The Nine

by LogicGunn



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Daedric Princes (Elder Scrolls), Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Nine Divines, Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27798415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: Rodney McKay, Scholar of the College of Winterhold, is on his way to visit an old friend when a chance meeting with one John Sheppard sets him on a new path to the stars.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 38
Kudos: 49





	1. A Warrior, A Druid, and A Monk Walk Into A Bar

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how easy this will be to follow if you've not played Skyrim, but I've tried to make it make sense either way. 
> 
> It's set just before the beginning of the game, so sadly there are no dragons to slay.
> 
> There are, however, taverns galore. Seriously, 90% of the fic takes place inside an inn.
> 
> As always, this fic is finished, I'm just editing each chapter as I go. I plan to upload twice a week.

Rodney pulls his fur cloak closer around himself, cursing all of the Nine Divines to the deepest depths of Oblivion for the bitterly cold wind assaulting his person. It's First Seed for Kyne's sake. It's supposed to be the month of sowing seeds and planting seedlings, the beginning of new life under the springtime sun, not the lingering frost of winter. His mare, Aillie, stumbles over a snowy mound, jerking Rodney's body forward and over onto her dappled neck. He scrabbles for purchase on the horn of his saddle, pushing himself upright as she corrects her footing, and directs her on through the falling snow, passing by the familiar farms that litter the outskirts of Whiterun. The fields have been abandoned early; presumably the farm owners took pity on their workers and let them inside for a hot meal and a warm bed, shelter out of the blizzard, maybe a mug of ale or two. Rodney doesn't begrudge them that comfort, but he sorely wishes he was already walking into the Bannered Mare, his inn of choice whenever he stops overnight in Whiterun. Hulda, the innkeeper, keeps the fire well stocked and tended, so even the outermost rooms are comfortably warm. Saadia, her cook, makes the most delicious stews, richly flavoured with spices from her native homeland of Hammerfell in the west, nothing like the heavy, greasy, mutton studded dishes that the natives of Skyrim favour. Gods, he can almost taste it, the pungent garlic, the heat of the chilli. Will it be goat or venison or salmon? Will there be crispy, roasted potatoes or grilled leeks? Maybe even some shredded cabbage with apple. And if he's lucky, there will be some pie left; apple or juniper berry, or maybe a sweetroll or two. 

Up ahead he spots some torches through the snow, burning bright enough to illuminate the mounted guard patrol coming his way. He leads Aillie to the side of the road to make room, and they greet him cordially as they pass him by, eyes piercing and appraising, taking in his travel cloak and the robes underneath, his saddlebags and his mages staff. They don't recognise him, though Rodney doesn't really expect them to. He might pass through Whiterun monthly, but he's never actually ventured far enough from the inn or stables to be noticed, and thankfully has never been in trouble or had need for the assistance of the guards. There’s no reason for anyone other than Hulda and Saadia to remember his face, and that’s the way he likes it. 

He reaches the river, crossing the bridge then turning west when the road splits in four. Rodney's not one for travelling at great speed, but the feeling in his fingers is starting to diminish so he kicks Aillie into a trot, then a slow canter and tries to stay in the saddle as her body gyrates in time with her gait. He's soon pulling her to a stop in front of the stables outside the city, eagerly handing her over to the waiting stablehand to be sheltered and fed and groomed, along with a handful of coin for the trouble. Every time he comes here it seems that the stablehand gets younger and younger, this latest one barely in his teen years. No matter; they've always taken good care of his horse, he has no reason to complain as long as that continues. 

The guards on the gate interrogate him when he approaches the gate on foot. 

"Where are you headed?" one asks. 

"The Bannered Mare," replies Rodney. 

"How long will you be staying?" asks another. 

"Overnight." 

"That's an awful lot of luggage for one night,” says the third, and Rodney resists the urge to roll his eyes at them. 

"I can hardly leave my valuables on my saddle, now can I?" he snaps. 

For a moment he thinks they might turn him away for his snarkiness, but they let him pass through the gate and into the city without even asking to search his bags. He shoulders his pack and stomps up the street to the inn at the far side of the market square, squeezing himself through the double doors as a local woman leaves. The first thing to hit him is the heat of the place, such a relief after the long journey in unfavourable weather. There are several empty stools at the bar, so he sits and listens to the chatter around him as he waits for Hulda to notice him. It doesn't take long. 

"Ah, Scholar McKay," she says as she turns from another patron. "I was wondering when you would be passing through." 

"Hello, Hulda. I hope you have a room available? I'd hate to have to bunk at the Drunken Huntsman again. The room there was freezing cold and the food was terrible." 

"I'm afraid I just let out the last guest room to a group of travellers," says Hulda, dropping a hot mug of cider in front of him. "But I can fit you in under the stairs if you don't mind close quarters." 

"It will have to do," says Rodney, and he makes a start on the cider as Hulda beckons Saadia to take his luggage, revelling in the sensation as the heat from the flagon seeps into his fingers and warms him up. It's a matter of minutes before he needs to take off his fur travel cloak and roll up the sleeves of his robes, the firepit at his back pushing the last of the chill from his bones. Saadia brings him a substantial bowl of stew – "A new recipe, Scholar McKay. Saffron scented goat with honey glazed carrots." – and he tucks in with gusto. It's as delicious as the last meal he had here, and he slips a generous tip into Saadia's apron pocket as she passes by, her arms laden with dishes. She brings him a sweetroll when she returns and gives him a rare smile which lights up her usually sullen face. No one could accuse Saadia of having a sunny disposition, but then again no-one could accuse Rodney of it either. He likes her brusque, efficient manner – if he wanted smarm, he'd head on up to the Cloud District and mingle with the noblemen, as is his right as a scholar of the College of Winterhold. Hah! He'd like to see the look on Farengar's face if he actually did, the smarmy, wannabe-wizard. Rodney has more magic in his little finger than that charlatan has in his entire body. Enchantment, pfft. Child's play. 

Hulda takes his empty flagon, and he starts on the sweet roll, tearing off pieces of the sweet cinnamon bread and spreading the icing evenly over each mouthful for optimal gastric pleasure. A man interrupts his contemplative mastication by sitting on the stool right next to him despite there being others further away that he could take. He's tall and lightly tanned, a little on the skinny side if his delicate wrists are any indication, with an unruly mop of dark hair and well-worn, but well-maintained leather armour. 

"Name's John," says the man, and he reaches out his hand to shake. Rodney just stares at the hand, instantly suspicious of the man's intentions. He hesitates so long that the man speaks again. "This would be the part where you tell me your name." 

Rodney looks up into his face, fine-featured and pretty in a way that men rarely are in Skyrim, with gently pointed ears that hint at some elven blood in his ancestry. His pouted lips stretch into a smile at Rodney's scrutiny. Ah, a gigolo then. "I'm not looking for company," says Rodney, and he turns back to his sweetroll, glad that that interaction is over. Except it's not. The man, John, doesn't move an inch, his hand hovering dangerously close to Rodney's arm. 

"My friends and I were hoping you'd join us for a drink." John gestures over his shoulder to the table in the corner, where a giant of a man and a petite woman, both ridiculously attractive themselves, are sitting with full flagons and a half-assed card game between them. They’re doing a half-decent job of pretending not to be watching the interaction at the bar, but Rodney can’t miss the way their heads are tilted towards him and the mysterious stranger. 

"Why?" asks Rodney. He has no interest in drinking games or betting, no tolerance for social niceties or tedious conversation. And if they're looking for some kind of foursome, they'd best look elsewhere. 

"It will take some explaining," says John. "But I assure you we mean you no ill will or harm. We have...you might call it a business arrangement for you. Certainly an adventure." 

Rodney doesn't like adventures on principle, but he can't help but be intrigued so he clasps John's hand and agrees to listen to their proposition, and when John leads the way to the table he grabs his cloak and staff in one hand and carries the rest of his sweetroll over in the other. The giant kicks out a chair for him, so he sits down and gestures to Hulda for another drink. 

John sits down next to him. "As I said, my name is John," he says. "John Sheppard. This is Teyla Emmagan...” - he gestures to the woman, copper skinned with strong arms and a warm smile - “...and this is Ronon Dex...” - then the man, tall as a horse with long dreads and the upper body strength of a someone who could get in a fistfight with a bear and win. “We've just arrived from Bruma. It's a city in northern-" 

"I know where Bruma is," interrupts Rodney. "I've been to Cyrodil." 

John isn't put off by Rodney's acerbic tone. "Right. In the interests of full disclosure-" 

"Your cider, Scholar McKay," says Hulda as she places the flagon on the table. 

"Please put this on our tab," says Teyla, and Hulda nods her assent. 

"That's awfully kind of you," says Rodney. "But I-" 

"No tricks," says Ronon, his voice deep and booming. "You won't owe us." 

"In that case, I am Scholar M. Rodney McKay from the Collage of Winterhold." 

"It's good to meet you, Rodney," says John, and Rodney's glad that he doesn't ask what the M stands for. "As I was saying, in the interests of full disclosure, we've been waiting for you to arrive." 

That's a surprise. Not many people know his timetable, only Calcelmo in Markarth, his final destination, and probably Hulda here in Whiterun since she's a highly effective innkeeper. "How? And why?" 

"We asked around," says John. "The innkeeper said you were due to visit." 

"By name?" 

"No. By attribute." John rolls up his sleeve to reveal the inside of his surprisingly solid forearm. Just above his wrist bone is a cluster of dark moles in the shape of a Sword. 

"That's very nice,” says Rodney. “But I'm not sure what it has to do with me." 

Ronon and Teyla both uncover their own forearms to reveal a chalice and a bird respectively. 

"They are constellations," says Teyla. "The symbols for three of the Nine Divines. Talos, Stendarr, and-" 

"Kynareth, also known as Kyne," says Rodney. "Yes, I'm familiar with the gods." 

Teyla gestures at Rodney own wrist. "You have one, do you not?" 

"I- What do you want of me?" 

"I would very much like to see it." 

Rodney reluctantly turns his hand so the inside of his wrist is on show, displaying his own moles. "It's just a triangle. Nothing special." 

"The constellation of Julianos," says Ronon. "The god of wisdom and logic." 

"Look, any three points on a two-dimensional plane will create a triangle. It's meaningless. Coincidence." 

"So you're not a man of logic?" asks John. "Someone who pursues truth and knowledge for the sake of knowing?" 

"Well, yes, I am a scholar, a very learned scholar, in fact, the best there is, but I'm not a man of the gods. I care not for Julianos or...I'm a man of science and magic. Things that can be measured and studied and replicated, not things that can be alluded to or shrouded in allegory and theology. And none of this explains what it is that you want from me." 

"There is a legend of a place in the North of Skyrim," says Teyla. "A hidden ruin, in which lies an ancient artefact, something that will respond only to the chosen nine of the divines." 

"We're three of them," says Ronon. "We're looking for the other six." 

John points at himself - "Talos." - then at Ronon - "Stendarr." - at Teyla - "Kynereth." - and finally at Rodney - "Julianos." 

"So, you're looking to collect the whole set," says Rodney. 

"Something like that." 

"Well, I hate to be a spoilsport, but I'm not the man you're looking for." 

Teyla drops her hand to rest on Rodney’s. "Are you quite certain?" she asks, her gaze intense. 

"Absolutely." Rodney stands and pulls his sleeves down. "Thank you for the drink. I'm going to turn in." 

They don't stop him, but he can feel their eyes on him as he picks up his cloak and staff and heads back to the bar to ask Hulda where his room is. She shows him to it; it's more of a store cupboard really with the boxes of supplies, but there's a full-sized bed and the rest of his luggage in the corner. Rodney's tired from the journey; Winterhold to Whiterun is manageable in a day, but he had to set off before dawn to make all the way here, and he's exhausted from trying to keep from falling off the horse. He puts the fanatical trio out of his mind and undresses for bed, yawning as he slides into the covers, surprised and pleased to find that Saadia has put a hot rock in the bottom to warm up his feet. He has another long day of travel tomorrow to get to Markarth, and he's not looking forward to the early start, but it'll all be worth it to see the look on Calcelmo's face when he shows him his equations on the orbit of the moons. If he's lucky, they can finally complete the math to predict future eclipses, and wouldn't that be something? 

*** 

Saadia wakes Rodney gently before dawn, as is their standing arrangement. Left to his own devices, he'd likely sleep in late, not waking even when Hulda knocks on the door to ask if she can come in to get something. He dresses up warmly and makes sure his bags are tied up tight then walks out into the main room, where Saadia is poking at the central firepit. When she sees him she stands and grabs a wrapped package from one of the tables. 

"I packed you a lunch," she says. "There's some rye bread and some mammoth cheese and an assortment of sliced meats. The bread is yesterdays, today's isn't baked yet, but rye bread keeps better than most." 

Rodney takes the lunch from her hands gratefully. "You're always too good to me," he says. 

"Nonsense. Someone has to feed you or you'd no doubt starve. It wouldn't do to have a member of the Collage drop dead on the road to Markarth." 

"Well, I'm thankful anyway." Rodney tucks the lunch into one of his bags. 

"Safe travels, Scholar McKay." 

"See you soon, Saadia. Please say goodbye to Hulda for me." 

Rodney leaves the inn, pleased to find that despite the ground being frosted over, there's no wind blowing across the market to chill him. His cloak is more than warm enough for this weather and he smiles to himself as he hefts his bags down the hill and out of the main gates, reaching the stable to find Aillie already saddled and waiting for him, as he requested when he handed her over. The saddle has been cleaned and oiled, he notes, the reins and bridle too. It's more than the stable in Winterhold does when he leaves her there. He tosses an extra coin to the stablehand, who holds his staff as he mounts Aillie then waves as he kicks her into a trot and directs her down to the main road. It's still dark, dawn just an orange glow on the horizon, but the two moons, Secunda and Masser, are both shining down on him and the snow reflects the light so that it's bright enough to see for miles. He spots the western watchtower up ahead, lit up by braziers and the moonlight, a comfort of civility out in the wilderness. Beyond that is the crumbling remains of an old fort that occasionally houses bandits or raiders. The road curves around it before dropping south-west, but there are ample patrols to keep the lone traveller safe. The Jarl of Whiterun takes the safety of his people very seriously, which is one of the reasons that Rodney chooses to travel through his hold every time he makes this journey rather than travel the North road, which is both longer and more dangerous. 

The sun slips over the horizon as he passes the fort and the road turns south towards Lake Ilinalta. It passes briefly into the northernmost corner of the great forest of Falkreath, before exiting into the mountainous hold of The Reach at midday. Rodney comes across a travelling Khajiit Caravan on the side of the road – cat-folk from Elsweyr come north to trade in Skyrim – and gets a great deal on a couple of healing potions and some home-made anti-chafing salve, good for long journeys on horseback. He stops for lunch, devouring the pack that Saadia made him, then pushes on into the valley that spans the whole of The Reach, the road skirting the river's south bank all the way to Markarth city. He doesn't pass any other travellers, which is unusual for this time of year. There should be seasonal workers travelling from farm to farm, quarry loads from the various mines headed for the other cities of Skyrim, commoners and the nobility visiting friends and family after the long, unpassable winter. He can't say he blames them for not travelling this day; the morning frost hasn't abated and it's colder than it should be this time of year. Still, it's notable, and though Rodney's not one for company, the passing greetings of other travellers on the road is often a welcome break from the monotony of his horse’s footsteps and the endless, barren mountains. 

Aillie starts to get skittish suddenly as they pass a stone bridge, pulling off the road and onto the bank of the river. Rodney clicks and digs in his heels, pulling on the reins to turn her back on the road, but she refuses, getting more and more agitated, shuffling from foot to foot and turning erratically on the spot. It's as though she's not sure what she's afraid of, and Rodney holds on tight as she steps to and fro. He's debating getting off her and leading her from the ground when the first arrow pierces his thigh. The next one hits Aillie in the neck, and Rodney has half a second to be certain that it will kill her before she rears and he's flung off her back and into the river, scrabbling with his arms and kicking with his feet to break above the water. He gulps in a breath and watches as Aillie bolts back the way they came. She makes it a good twenty meters before she stops dead and collapses onto the grass, as still as the mountains that loom over them. Rodney tries to swim to the bank, but his limbs start to fail him and he sinks slowly underwater, his arms twitching ineffectually, struggling to get his body to move, swim, anything to push his head back above the surface of the water. The flow of the river sweeps him away, he can feel it as he swirls about in the water, his robes kicking up around him in a whirlwind of fabric. He starts to panic, desperate for air but utterly paralysed, unable to even kick off the riverbed. His body betrays him, inhaling even though he's submerged, he feels the cold water burn his throat and fill his lungs, and he realises with sudden clarity that this is it, he's going to die. There's so much he didn't manage to do. He hopes that someone will pass on his notes to Calcelmo, at least. 

Two hands grab him and lift him easily out of the river, and he sucks in a much-needed breath, coughing up the fluid from his lungs as someone whacks his back hard. He's lowered to the ground on his front, where more hands start to touch him, removing his outer robe and covering him with a warm, dry cloak. He closes his eyes and just breathes, his irritated lungs hacking up fluid and phlegm, feeling the frosty grass scratch his cheek and hearing the sounds of a violent altercation a little ahead of him. When he opens his eyes he sees the giant man from the Bannered Mare surrounded by robed figures on the road, his fists flying and swinging all around him in a flurry as each opponent is hit square in the jaw and falls to the ground, defeated and unconscious and bloody. Rodney tries to move his head to look around, but he can't, so he tries to talk instead. 

"Hello?" he says, but it comes out a strangled moan. 

"Shhh, don't try to talk," says a woman's voice. 

Several hands turn him over onto his back and he sees John and Teyla fussing over him, securing the cloak tightly around his body and checking his pockets. For what, Rodney's not sure, but if they're going to rob him he's not going down without a fight. He summons the magic within him and casts out some flames, but with no way to move his arms, he can't direct them at the two people hovering over him. 

"Woah, Rodney," says John, moving his arm out and away from them. "We're not going to hurt you, I swear. You're safe, we're just checking for injuries, alright?" 

Rodney can't talk, can't even nod his head. He has no choice but to trust that the three of them won't harm him or steal his gold, or worse, his notes. He spares a thought for poor Aillie lying dead up the road, but there's nothing he can do for her now. What did those bandits want with him? Why did they attack? Was it just to rob him? They could at least have demanded his gold without killing his horse. 

"There's a building on the other side of the river," says Ronon as he comes back over, fists dripping blood. "We should take him there, ask for assistance." 

"Alright," says John, but Rodney's not sure that it is. He feels himself being lifted off the ground and placed in the saddle of the blackest horse he's ever seen. They're obviously not smart people – Rodney can barely keep in a saddle when his body is fully functional, he's not going to be able to- oh. John hauls himself up and slips in behind Rodney, holding him tightly with both arms around his middle, one hand pressing into his stomach while the other grasps the reins in front of them. Rodney slumps back against John's chest as the horse shuffles under their combined weight. He can hear Ronon and Teyla mount their own horses and they set off at a trot across the bridge and up into the mountainside, John’s strong arms keeping Rodney upright the whole way. The building turns out to be an inn, and Ronon hauls Rodney over his shoulder as Teyla rushes off ahead inside. There's an exchange of words and the clinking of coin, and then Rodney's lain down on a narrow bed pressed against the wall inside a small room. Teyla and John remove his cloak and boots, but when they unbuckle Rodney's belt he starts to panic. 

"Hnnf dnnf nuuuuh," he says, but Teyla just positions his head with both hands and forces him to look at her. 

"You are safe, Scholar McKay. Your clothes are wet, we need to get you undressed and dried and into bed to warm up. No harm will come to you, I swear it." 

"Nnngh." 

Teyla smiles serenely at him. "It is nothing I have not seen before, I assure you." 

There's nothing he can say to that, even if he could talk, so he just lies there as they remove his clothing piece by piece and wipe him dry with the corner of a blanket. John pulls the covers up over him, leaving his wounded leg uncovered, then sits on the edge of the bed next to him. 

"So here's the thing," he says. "The arrow in your thigh is poisoned with some kind of paralytic. The only thing we can do about that is wait it out. In the meantime, Ronon's bartering for some bandages so we can take the arrow out and patch you up. When you're able to move again, we'll talk. How does that sound?" 

Rodney tries and fails to glare at John, but he just takes it in his stride and smiles back at him. Ronon returns with the bandages and gives them to Teyla, then the two men immobilise the leg so she can pull out the arrow. She does it in one swift, clean motion and Rodney cries out loud at the pain, but then it's over and John's wiping the tears from his face as Teyla wraps a poultice around his thigh. 

"Rest now," says Teyla, and she presses her forehead to Rodney’s as she sends John and Ronon out of the room. She draws the curtain, blows out the candle and shuts the door behind her, leaving Rodney in darkness, naked but warm, and decidedly not in the hands of bandits. As far as days go, this one is a disaster, but it could have been worse had those three not been close by. He ponders that as he falls asleep, dreams of companionship and adventure and soaring in the space between the stars. 

*** 

Rodney wakes up, naked and in a strange bed. It takes him a moment to remember what happened, the crushing panic of being paralysed, the cold water filling his lungs, John and Teyla and Ronon coming to the rescue. Poor Aillie. What a way to die. He's woken up able to move, so he sits up, finds that his clothes have been cleaned and dried and left folded on a chair. He dresses and pulls on his boots, fully appreciating the movement of his limbs. His legs are a little unsteady when he stands, but he stays on his feet just fine so he opens the door and steps out into the tavern. It’s bustling this morning with sleepy patrons and ravenous soldiers. A hard-faced Nord woman tends the bar, and a young boy, by the look of him her son, delivers plates of food to the tables. John, Teyla and Ronon are sitting at a table in the back, drinking steaming tea. Ronon looks up and spots him, waves him over to join them at the table. Rodney sits down next to them, wincing a little from the pain of his thigh wound. 

"Were you following me?" he asks them right off the bat. 

"Yup," says Ronon. 

"I didn't notice you." 

Ronon smirks as he raises his cup to his lips. "You would have if you'd ever looked back." 

"You were behind me the whole time?" 

"All the way from Whiterun," says John. 

"Why?" 

"We hoped you would reconsider travelling with us," says Teyla. "And..." 

"And?" 

"We were worried about you,” admits Teyla, hesitantly. "There have been...incidents in our travels. With people such as those that attacked you." 

"Bandits?" 

"No, not bandits," says Ronon. "Cultists." 

"What's the difference?" asks Rodney. 

"Bandits are after gold and valuables," says Teyla. "Cultists act on beliefs, they have motives beyond opulence." 

“What do these cultists want?” 

“We think they are intent on preventing us from completing our quest. As to why, I have no idea.” 

Ronon leans forward. “Whoever they are, they’re-” 

Ronon's eyes snap up behind Rodney’s head, and he twists in his chair to see what he's looking at. A woman approaches, young and blonde with porcelain skin and rosy cheeks, arms laden with plates of food. If the amulet of Dibella around her neck wasn't a clue that she's a practitioner of the sensual Dibellan arts, her revealing clothing would have been: no one that doesn't engage in a certain freedom of sexuality would wear a neckline so plunging in the middle of Skyrim. She puts the dishes down on the table then turns to Rodney. 

"Would you anything?" she asks, the curve of her full lips hinting at something more than food. 

"Huh?" is all that Rodney can force out of his throat. 

"There's enough for all of us," says John, smiling threateningly at the woman, who looks back at him for a moment then heads off to another table. "I take it you're still not looking for company?" he asks Rodney, with a smirk. 

"Where are we?" asks Rodney, ignoring John’s teasing. 

"The Old Hroldan Inn," says John. "Just off the road between Falkreath and Markarth." 

"By Azura,” moans Rodney. “It's going to take me all day to reach Markarth on foot." 

"You don't have to go on foot," says Ronon. 

"We would be happy to accompany you," adds Teyla. 

"In exchange for...what?" asks Rodney. 

John looks puzzled at that. "Nothing," he says. 

"No tricks," says Ronon. 

Rodney picks a splinter off the wooden table. "But you're hoping that if I hang around you all long enough, I'll change my mind." 

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" asks John. 

Rodney is curious, inherently so, but there's a difference between curiosity and blindly following strangers on a dangerous quest. "What happens if I'm really the chosen of Julianos? Suppose we find everybody? Do you even know where this supposed temple is?" 

"On an island, to the North,” says John. 

"Is that a verified fact? Or..." 

"None of us has seen it if that's what you're asking," says Ronon. "But we've all had dreams." 

"A stone ring engraved with symbols," says John. "It takes the nine chosen to activate it, then-" 

"A wall of blue water," whispers Rodney, and they all look at him knowingly. 

"You have had the dream," says Teyla, and it's not a question. 

"I-" 

Over by the bar, a commotion grabs their attention as the waitress picks up a lute and the rest of the tavern cheers in excitement. 

"There's nothing like a good song to lift the spirits of troubled ones," she says, and she starts to play. _"Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to_ _Whiterun_ _from old_ _Rorikstead_ _..."_

Rodney turns back to the other three. "Yes, I have dreams. Everyone has dreams, they don't mean anything." 

"Don't you think it's odd that we've all had the same dream?" asks John. 

"Well...Okay, yes, that's a little unusual." 

"How long have you had this dream?" asks Teyla. 

"Since the end of the long winter," replies Rodney. "The first day we had sunlight." 

"As I thought," says Teyla. 

"You too? All of you?" 

Teyla, Ronon and John all nod. 

"Well," says Rodney, surprised. "There might be something in that." 

"So you'll come with us?" asks John, eagerly. 

"I guess so. But I really need to go to Markarth first." 

"No problem," says John. 

"Actually..." says Rodney, but he hesitates and bites his lip. 

"What?" says Ronon. 

"There's someone in Markarth you all might want to meet. A friend. Radek Zelenka." 

"What's so interesting about this Radek?" asks John. 

"He has the mark of Zenithar," says Rodney. "On his wrist." 

“Then we would very much like to meet him,” says Teyla, sipping from her cup of hot tea. 

"First we eat," says Ronon. "Then I have a word with the bard." 

"Why?" Asks Rodney. 

"She has the mark of Dibella." 

*** 

The bard doesn't take much convincing. Ronon's barely sat down at a table with her when she gets up and tells the innkeeper that she's leaving for a few days. It's only a couple more minutes before the five of them are standing in the courtyard eyeing up the three horses that belong to John, Ronon and Teyla. 

"I'm Jennifer Keller, by the way," says the bard to Rodney as the other three saddle up. "Call me Jen." 

"Oh, uh, Scholar M. Rodney McKay,” says Rodney, strapping his staff onto his back. “Most people call me Rodney.” 

"What does the M stand for?" 

"Misanthrope." 

Jen giggles out loud, a melodic sound much like her stringed lute, which is hanging from the side of her travel bag, two simple iron daggers strapped to her thighs over her beige riding breeches. 

"Will there be much call for singing?" asks Rodney, twanging one of the lute’s strings. 

"There's always a need for a tune," says Jen. "Especially on a quest! Oh, I'm so excited!" 

Rodney rolls his eyes at that. Adventures only ever bring disappointment. 

Ronon pulls up in front of them on a chestnut stallion and reaches a hand to Jen. She takes it and he lifts her up in front of him easily, tying her bag and lute to the saddle then wrapping an arm around her waist. 

"I take it you know how to ride?" he growls in her ear. 

"Oh, I do," says Jen, seductively. Ronon grins and kicks the horse on, Teyla following behind on her golden-coated mare. 

"Teyla has your luggage," says John from up on his big black mare. He pats her neck affectionately as he pulls her to a stop in front of Rodney. “This is Puddlejumper. You’ve met her already.” 

Rodney squints at him in the sunlight. "I take it I'm riding with you?" he asks. 

"Sure, unless you know how to raise a horse from the dead?" 

Rodney takes the offered arm and heaves himself up behind John, one leg nestled behind a shield hanging from the saddle. He grips the cantle with both hands, but John reaches behind himself and pulls them around his waist, clasping them tightly in front. 

"You have to hold on properly or you're going to fall off." 

"Oh, okay then." They're pressed together, chest to back. It's intimate and intimidating, and Rodney feels his heart thundering behind his ribcage. He hopes John can't feel it too. 

"Don't worry, I don't bite," says John. He clicks and digs in his heels, and the horse starts to trot to catch up with the others. Rodney holds on for dear life, probably a little too tightly for comfort, but horse-riding just isn't his forte; he's found himself on the ground more times than he cares to remember. He closes his eyes and presses his head against John's shoulder. 

"Actually,” he says, trying to keep down his breakfast. “I do know how to raise a horse from the dead. I'm just against that kind of magic on principle." 

John laughs out loud and though the sound is akin to the braying of an irate donkey, it’s more alluring than even Jen's lilt. "Good to know," he says, and he kicks Puddlejumper into a rolling canter. 


	2. Radek Zelenka, Purveyor Of Fine Cheeses And Avatar Of Zenithar

Markarth is a grand, stone city built into the side of a mountain. There is nowhere in Skyrim quite like it, with its narrow streets and thick walls, trickling waterways and tiny windows. Rodney hates it, always feels like he’s going to be buried alive when he visits, but  Calcelmo refuses to leave his dig site and travel to  Winterhold so Rodney comes every month to confer on their findings. Rodney’s area of expertise is the night sky, whereas  Calcelmo’s is the deep ruins of the  Dwemer – a dwarven race that built not only the city of  Markarth but also the ruins of  Nchuand -Zel underneath. There’s a surprising amount of overlap between their two disciplines, and with every visit both of them gain more of an understanding of the machinations that underpin their respective fields, so it’s a worthy excursion as far as Rodney’s concerned and it doesn’t take much to convince the Arch-Mage to let him go. As the group pulls into  Markarth’s stables, Rodney jumps down from John’s horse and stumbles over to Teyla’s to grab his bags. His travel bag will stay with him, but the two bags containing his research notes can be safely left in  Calcelmo’s hands while he does...whatever it is he’s going to do with this motley crew. He’s not entirely sure that he didn’t bang his head when he was thrown from his horse, adventuring is not something he has ever felt inclined to do, and while he doesn’t  _ not  _ believe in the gods, he isn’t particularly fussed to earn their favour. Still, he doesn’t believe in coincidence so there’s a chance there might be something to these markings after all, if (and it’s a big if) the triangle on his wrist is truly the mark of  Julianos . The marks the others have are more complex, undeniably the  sigils of the gods; his could just be nothing at all. 

“I’m going to visit with Calcelmo first,” Rodney says to the group. “Shall we meet in the tavern when I’m done?” 

“Who exactly  _ is _ this  Calcelmo ?” asks John, dismounting from  Puddlejumper and handing her over to the stablemaster. 

“He’s a historian,” says Rodney. “He studies Dwemer history.” 

“And that is your area of expertise?” asks Teyla as she dismounts gracefully onto light feet. “Dwemer history?” 

“What? No!” scoffs Rodney. “I’m the foremost expert on astronomy in all of Tamriel. My vocation is the movement of the celestial bodies. The moons, the stars, the sun, I study their paths and the effects they have here on the planet. Not to mention my side studies in Illusion and  Destruction magic.” 

“ So what do you and this...Calcelmo have to talk about?” asks Jen. “I mean, the ancient history of a long-dead race has nothing to do with the heavens in the here and now.” 

“There’s a lot more crossover than you might think,” says Rodney. “But honestly I don’t think we have the time to get into it. I’d like to get into the keep as soon as possible. I was expected last night and  Calcelmo will be waiting for me. It shouldn’t take too long, maybe a few hours. Then I’ll take you to see Radek Zelenka.” 

“Alright,” says Ronon. “We’ll look around, meet you in the tavern for lunch.” 

Rodney double checks that he has everything he needs then turns and walks up to the gates of Markarth, passing through with a nod to the guards. It’s not until he’s inside the city walls that he realises he has a shadow. John’s following him through the market and up the stone steps that lead to Understone Keep, the home of the Jarl of  Markarth , and the workplace of  Calcelmo . 

Rodney turns around. “You’re not very stealthy, you know.” 

“You say that, but it took you long enough to notice me,” retorts John, catching up and coming to a stop right in front of Rodney. 

“What do you think you are doing?” 

“I’m coming with you.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yes, I am.” John places a hand on the pommel of the sword in his belt. “You’ve already been attacked once; I’m not going to let anything happen to you again.” 

“Look, I appreciate the-” 

“I’m coming. End of. You want to go see this guy or not?” 

Rodney huffs then turns around and carries on climbing the steps. If John wants to hang around for hours while he and Calcelmo discuss things he doesn't understand, that’s his prerogative. Besides, if he’s honest with himself, the attack rattled him a little bit. He’s not one hundred percent confident that the paralytic will have no lasting consequences. It wouldn’t hurt to have a bodyguard in case of further incidents. Especially not one as pleasant to look at as John. 

The keep’s guards greet Rodney formally and open the doors for him, but he’s only a few steps in when a commotion behind him makes him turn around again. John’s being detained, the guard’s spears crossed over the entrance to stop him from entering. 

“Rodney?” says John. 

“You know this man?” asks one of the guards, John’s armoured  bicep in his fist. 

“He’s with me,” says Rodney. 

“Very well Scholar McKay.” 

The guards fall back into their posts and allow John to pass. He adjusts his armour, glaring at the guard's spears with an irritated eye. 

“I take it the Jarl doesn’t get many visitors?” asks John. 

“He’s not one to grant an audience to the common rabble,” says Rodney. “I’ve never met him.” 

“Never? How long have you been coming here?” 

“Years.” 

They swing a left before they reach the inner entryway to the keep, passing through a cavernous hallway that opens up into a vast subterranean cave with massive two-storey doors leading deeper into the mountainside. 

“I thought you said the Dwemer were dwarves?” asks John, looking around in awe. 

“They were,” comes a voice from the side, and a tall, wizened elf steps towards them. 

“Calcelmo, good to see you,” says Rodney. “This is John Sheppard, my...uh-” 

“I’m a friend of Rodney’s,” says John smoothly, holding a hand out to Calcelmo. He takes it and they shake. “So if they were dwarves, why the massive doors?” 

Calcelmo smiles and turns to Rodney. “Very astute, your...friend.” 

Rodney feels himself flush under the scrutiny. “He’s, uh, smarter than he looks.” 

“Hey!” says John, but there’s no malice in the look he gives Rodney. 

“Are you a student of science, John?” asks Calcelmo. 

“Oh, you know,” says John, cryptically. “I dabble.” 

“Don’t we all?” says Calcelmo, and it seems like something is passing between him and John, something uncomfortable and jarring. 

“Well,” interrupts Rodney. “Down to business?” 

“Of course, my friend,” says Calcelmo. “I have much to show you.” 

Rodney and Calcelmo exchange notes, taking the time to comment on things of particular interest. Rodney shows him his updated calculations, to which Calcelmo claps his hands then grabs a stylus to scribble in the margin that Rodney deliberately left for such a purpose. They speculate that an eclipse is imminent, but both agree that it will take more time to pinpoint the exact date. Calcelmo shares a dusty tome, written in Dwemer runes, that hints to the existence of a great telescope somewhere in Skyrim, something that excites Rodney greatly, if only it gave a description of the location; Dwemer names are so very different to the common tongue. 

A crash makes them both jump, and they turn around to see John sheepishly picking up a metal cog from the floor. “Oops,” he says, dropping it gently back onto the table.

“No matter,” says Calcelmo. “I’ve kept your friend long enough, I fear. Come, both of you. You’ll want to see this.” 

Rodney and John follow  Calcelmo to his workstation, a large desk by a stone bridge that spans an underground river. It’s covered with knick-knacks and curios, things that have been brought back from expeditions into  Nchuand -Zel, not all of them worthless trinkets.  Calcelmo picks up a pendant; a leather thong knotted around a small, flat, transparent crystal. Crisscrossing inside the crystal are geometric lines with circular nodes. It’s clearly manufactured, but it’s like nothing Rodney has ever seen and nothing at all like the familiar artefacts of the Dwemer. 

“Do you know what it is?” asks Rodney. 

“No idea,” says Calcelmo. “I found it inside a chest in the living quarters of the ruin. It’s curiously incongruent with the rest of the contents.” 

Rodney peers at the crystal. “It’s mathematical in nature, that’s for certain. I wonder what these nodes are for?” 

Calcelmo throws it at Rodney, who fumbles with it but catches it in hand. “Something tells me you’re going to be late to our next meeting,” says Calcelmo, glancing at John. 

“How did you know?” asks Rodney. 

“Your friend has the look of an adventurer.” 

“Oh, well, we’re-” 

“You should take that pendant with you. For luck.” 

Calcelmo grins when he says luck, knowing full well that Rodney doesn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense. Nevertheless, Rodney drapes the pendant over his neck and tucks it into his robes for safekeeping. 

“Can I leave my notes here?” asks Rodney. “I’ll come for them when I’m finished with the...uh...quest.” 

“Of course, my friend. Leave them under the workbench on the far wall, away from the splashing of the river. They’ll be quite safe.” 

Rodney pushes his two bags of notes under the workbench then bids farewell to Calcelmo. John follows him out of the cavern, through the corridor, and out the front doors before he speaks. 

“Interesting guy, your friend Calcelmo,” he says as the doors shut behind them. 

“Mmmm. You two are like oil and water,” says Rodney. “What time do you suppose it is?” 

“I’m thinking we missed lunch,” says John. “Is he always like that?” 

“Calcelmo? He’s not usually so polite.” 

“Polite. Right.” John scans the city. “Look, there’s Jennifer.” He points to a Dibellan Temple on a hill up ahead, where Jen is greeting an older woman in a brown robe. They kiss on each cheek before heading in through the doors. “Guess she’s indisposed.” 

Rodney starts down the steps. “Well, we agreed to meet at the tavern, so let's head there first.” 

“Yessir,” says John. 

***

The Silver-Blood Inn is just inside the city gates, and it’s most people’s first port of call when visiting Markarth. Rodney stays there whenever he visits, but he can’t say he’s a fan of the place. Far too much drunken revelry as the silver miners drink late into the night. It’s quiet when they walk in, on account of it being early afternoon, and Rodney thinks it’s a shame it can’t be like this all the time. Ronon and Teyla are sitting by the fireplace, and Rodney and John join them, noticing too late that there are three flagons of ale on the table. 

“That is my seat,” says a familiar voice, and Rodney twists in the chair to see Radek glaring at him, his ashy hair whispery and dishevelled, and his round glasses making his eyes look much bigger than they really are, like a fish on a market stall. There’s a pale sallowness to his skin, like a man that’s spent far too much time indoors and not enough time in the sun. Rodney can relate. Radek's glare softens when he recognises Rodney, and he smiles. “Ah, Rodney, my old friend. It is good to see you.” 

“Likewise, Radek. I guess you’ve met Teyla and Ronon?” 

“Yes, they have been filling me in on their predicament. It is interesting, no?” Radek turns towards John. “And who is this?” he asks. 

John stands and offers his hand. “John Sheppard. Nice to meet you.” 

Radek shakes his hand with enthusiasm. “And you.  So you are the a vatar of Talos?” 

“Avatar?” asks Rodney. 

“There is much to discuss,” says Teyla. “We were waiting for you and Jen to return.” 

“Jennifer is at the Temple of Dibella,” says John. “We saw her go in as we left the keep.” 

“She could be some time,” adds Ronon. “So let’s get to know each other a little better and we can make a plan when she returns.” 

Radek pulls up another chair and they order two more flagons of the house ale. The barman, Kleppr, balding on top with bitter and twisted face, brings their order over quickly and dumps the flagons on the table with a loud thunk. He doesn't so much as look at them, let alone smile, before he storms off back to the bar, glaring at the back of his wife, Frabbi, who sweeps the floor of the inn and pointedly doesn’t look up at him. 

“They had a bit of a disagreement before you came,” Radek tells Rodney in hushed tones. “There were flying dishes and spilt wine.” 

“I’m glad I wasn’t here to see that this time,” admits Rodney, reaching for a flagon. “I don't understand why they stay together if they hate each other so much.” 

“Love is sometimes violent, I suppose,” says Radek. 

“It shouldn’t be,” says John, peering at them both. 

“I agree,” says Teyla. “To love someone is to hold them in high regard. There is no place for harsh words or unkind acts.” 

“Not all marriages are love-matches,” says Rodney. “Some are for money or status, or because your father said so.” 

“Are you speaking from experience?” asks Ronon. 

“Let’s just say I dodged an arrow to the knee, and leave it at that.” 

John leans over the table towards Rodney and opens his mouth. Whatever he was going to say gets lost in the commotion of Jen coming back. 

“Greetings everyone!” she says, grabbing a chair and bringing it over. She perches on the edge of the seat, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She does a double-take when she notices Radek. “Who are you?” 

“Radek Zelenka, at your service,” says Radek with a little bow. “Purveyor of fine cheeses and avatar of  Zenithar .” 

Jen giggles at the introduction.

“There’s the word again,” says Rodney. “Avatar.” 

“An avatar is the living personification of the divines. In my case, I’m the embodiment of Zenithar, the God of Trade.” He pushes up his sleeve to reveal a marking in the shape of an anvil, and Jen leans in close to see it. 

“I have the mark of Dibella, Goddess of Beauty,” she says, and she shows them all the mark of a flower on her wrist. “Does that mean I’m her descendant?” 

“Not exactly,” says Radek. “More like...a representative.” 

Jen sighs dramatically. “And to think they wouldn’t let me join the priesthood.” 

“They perhaps knew you were destined for something else,” says Teyla, placing a hand on Jen’s arm. “The ways of the priest are not the ways of a bard.” 

Jen takes Teyla’s hand and turns her arm over to reveal her mark. “The bird of Kynareth,” she says. “Goddess of Air.” 

“And of the elements,” muses Teyla. “I have felt her all my life.” 

“Alright, Mr Tall, Dark and Stoic,” says Jen, reaching for John’s hand. “Let’s see yours.” 

John quickly pulls his arm out of Jen’s reach but lifts his sleeve just enough for everyone to see the sword captured in the moles on his wrist. He quickly drops it back down to cover himself, as though even just those couple of inches on display is indecent. 

“The sword of Talos,” says Radek. “Hero-god of Mankind. You must be an honourable man.” 

John’s ears flush bright red at the scrutiny, and he mumbles something incoherent. Rodney feels for him, and quickly diverts everyone’s attention elsewhere. 

“I don’t think I’m the avatar of Julianos,” he says loudly, showing everyone his own wrist. “It’s just a triangle.” 

“You are a man of logic and wisdom, my friend,” says Radek. “If anyone is the embodiment of Julianos, it is you.” He turns to Ronon. “And what of you, gentle giant? Are you marked by the gods?” 

Ronon removes his robe and reveals his bulging forearm to the group, the chalice sitting right between the bones of his wrist. “Stendarr, God of mercy and justice.” 

“And charity and luck,” says Jen, squeezing Ronon’s ample bicep affectionately. He looks down at her and grins. Rodney wonders exactly when  _ that _ happened, figures it’s best not to ask. Ronon doesn’t seem like an idiot. If he wants to practise the Dibellan arts with Jen, then that’s his business. 

Teyla leans forward, and such is her aura of serenity that everyone’s attention turns to her without a word. She traces her mark with her fingertips, then looks up at all the watchful eyes. 

“There is an old legend, a myth, of an artefact of the Ancestors somewhere in the North of  Skyrim. It is said that it responds only to those blessed by the gods and that they bear the markings of the divines. It is those markings that activate the artefact.” 

“What does it do?” asks Rodney. 

“No one knows,” says Ronon. “But the dreams we’ve been having, the ring of water...that must be something to do with it.” 

“We have two objectives,” says John. “We need to find the rest of the avatars – Akatosh, Arkay and Mara – and we need to find the location of the artefact.” 

“The rest of the avatars could be anywhere in Tamriel,” says Rodney. “How are we supposed to find them?” 

“I have had...visions,” says Teyla, reluctantly. “I know that everyone else we need is in a cold place. I believe the last of the avatars must be close by.” 

Radek clears his throat. “I might know of one...” he says. “I have heard of a healer in Riften, a man of miracles who treats the poor for a pittance and the rich for accommodation. Rumour has it that he eradicated an outbreak of Peryite’s Affliction in Solitude.” 

“Could he be our avatar of Arkay?” asks Jen. 

“It is a start,” says Teyla. “We should split up. One group to travel to Riften to meet this healer, another to travel north to find the location of the artefact.” 

“Someone should go to the College of Winterhold,” says Rodney, and everyone looks at him pointedly. “Oh, no. Not me. If I go back, the Arch-Mage will insist that I stay. He doesn’t approve of excursions unless they are academic. Better for someone else to go. Check out the library.” 

“Will they allow us entry?” asks Teyla. 

“I can write a cover letter to get someone access. Say it’s research for something I’m doing with Calcelmo.” 

Jen raises her hand. “I’ll go,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to see the college.” 

“I’ll go with you,” says Ronon, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t travel Skyrim alone.” 

“I think it would be a good idea to visit Solitude as well,” says Teyla. “There may be something of interest in the archives in the Blue Palace. I have met with Jarl  Elisif before, and she owes me a favour.” 

“I would be most interested in accompanying you,” says Radek. “I have an acquaintance in the Blue Palace that might be of assistance.” 

John looks at Rodney and grins. “Looks like you and I are going to Riften.” 

“I can barely contain my excitement,” says Rodney sarcastically, but he buckles under the power of John’s grin and finds himself smiling. “Well, at least it won’t be dull.” 

“So, we’re doing this, then?” says Ronon, looking at each of them in turn. 

“It would seem so,” says Rodney. “But let’s spend the night here. I don’t want to be caught out in the wilderness in the dark.” 

“I will ask the innkeeper for some rooms,” says Teyla. 

“And dinner?” asks Ronon. 

Teyla rolls her eyes, at him. “And dinner,” she says, and she heads over to the bar. 

Jen takes Radek’s arm and leans in to whisper in his ear. Rodney catches a few words - “So tell me, Radek, about your  fine cheeses...” - but the rest is lost over the din of the tavern, which has filled up since they sat down to talk. Some of the patrons are obviously silver miners, dirt-streaked with grubby hands and fingernails. Rodney sincerely hopes that Kleppr and Frabbi thoroughly clean the flagons and crockery, though he suspects otherwise. The two of them seem incapable of that kind of attention to detail. He looks down into his flagon for signs of dirt. It’s a wasted effort since it’s half-empty already, but forewarned is forearmed, as they say. 

“So,” says John, leaning into Rodney’s space. “Tell me about your almost marriage?” 

“There’s not much to tell,” says Rodney, swirling his ale around to check the bottom. 

“But you spoke so...vehemently against it. I bet there’s a story there.” 

Rodney sighs. “I was betrothed. My father arranged a marriage between me and the daughter of one of his business partners. I couldn’t stand the idea so I ran away to the college.” 

“That’s it?” asks John. 

“What were you expecting?” 

“Intrigue, a dashing tale of derring-do. At the very least some kind of tawdry affair with the stable boy or the local priestess.” 

Rodney laughs at the images John’s words bring to his mind. “The ‘stable boy’ was seventy years old, and the local priestess was an orc, she’d have broken me in two!” 

“What a way to go, though,” says John, wiggling his brows. 

Rodney, who was taking a drink from his flagon, snorts out a laugh, spraying the table with ale. “John Sheppard, you are a menace.” 

John grins, but he sneaks a clean rag from behind the bar and helps Rodney mop up the ale. Teyla comes back, having secured a few rooms, and they settle back down by the fire, chattering amongst themselves with another round. Ronon gets up to relieve himself, heading through the back door to the outhouse. When he comes back, he bumps into another man, as tall as himself and broad as a bear, bare-chested with blonde braids that hints at a Nord lineage. Ronon moves to the side to let him pass, but instead, the man says something to him. Rodney can’t hear it over the sound of the other patrons, but he does hear when Ronon laughs out loud and says “You’re on!”. They exit through the front door out into the street.

“Ooooh, a brawl!” says Jen, and she jumps up and rushes outside to watch. 

“By the nine,” says John, and he tugs Rodney to follow him outside, where Ronon and the man are squaring off, with raised fists. Ronon is light on his feet, hopping from toe to toe, moving with unexpected grace. 

“He’s so fluid,” Rodney whispers to John. 

“He’s a monk,” John whispers back. “Trained in Elsweyr with the Khajit. He’s a master of the Claw-Dance.” 

Someone’s taking bets on the outcome of the brawl. The opponent’s name is Cosnach, and from the sounds of things, he’s something of a local legend. 

“My money’s on Ronon,” says John when the bet-master comes round. 

“That’s a loser's bet,” he says, but he takes John’s money anyway. He eyes Rodney for a wager, but Rodney dismisses him with a shake of the head. You can take the man out of the nobility, but you can’t take the nobility out of the man. His mother would turn in her grave if he started gambling. 

Cosnach takes a swing at Ronon, but his fist meets only air; in the blink of an eye, Ronon disappears from in front of him and pops up behind, getting the first hit of the brawl.  Cosnach falls to the ground but gets up quickly, twisting around to try again. Ronon dodges his fists like a summer fly buzzing around a room, and  Cosnach doesn’t even get one good hit in. Rodney knew that Ronon was a decent fist-fighter, saw him fighting dirty when he was ambushed by cultists, but this is something else. It’s simply masterful, and in a matter of minutes, it’s all over. Cosnach’s on his knees on the ground with a bloody nose and Ronon’s declared the winner. There are many vexed faces in the crowd as people who’ve lost their bet grumble and walk away. 

The bet master comes over and gives John his winnings. Rodney knows better than to ask how much he bet and how much he’s won, but John tells him anyway. 

“Five hundred gold return for a bet of fifty! They really had faith in that Cosnach guy.” 

“He’s probably not had a real challenge for a long time,” says Rodney, watching as Cosnach and Ronon exchange a friendly hand-shake and head back into the inn to drink a post-brawl shot of something strong. 

Rodney doesn’t feel like celebrating, is tired from the events of yesterday, so straight after dinner he bids goodnight to the group and makes his way to one of the rooms Teyla had secured. It’s spacious, with a double bed in the centre and a sturdy chest of drawers on the far wall. The door doesn’t lock, so Rodney washes in the provided washbasin quickly then undresses and slips in between the sheets. His thigh aches a little, but whatever Teyla put in the poultice is working well; it’s not weeping and there’s no swelling or heat to the skin underneath. He’s fortunate that his companions followed him from  Whiterun . Had he been alone, he would have drowned, or worse, been taken prisoner. He’s heard of the things that cultists  do to their prisoners; barbaric customs involving blood and other bodily fluids, ritual sacrifices and rites of warriorhood, all of them bad for the poor soul that gets captured. Still, it doesn’t do to dwell on the might-have- been . He can rest soundly for the night in a warm bed, and tomorrow they will set off for  Riften , see if they can find this healer. 

*** 

“Son of a milk-drinker!” comes a voice from the other side of the room. 

Rodney snaps bolt upright in the bed. 

“Who’s there?” he asks. 

“S’just me,” says John, clomping about in the dark. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m coming to bed.” 

“What?” hisses Rodney. “There’s only one bed!” 

“I know,” says John, over-enunciating like Rodney’s a bit slow. “We’re sharing.” 

“I can’t share with you, you’re-” Rodney stops in his tracks and shuts his mouth with an audible click. 

“I’m what?” says John as he approaches, and Rodney can hear the smirk. 

“Nothing. Sure, fine, whatever. As long as you don’t snore.” 

The other side of the bed dips, squeaking audibly, and there’s a ruffling as John presumably gets undressed. He swings his legs into the bed and tugs on the blankets a little as he pulls them over himself, shuffling to get comfortable. The bed mustn’t meet his level of luxury, however, because the man doesn’t stop wriggling – shuffle-shuffle-shuffle...shuffle-shuffle-shuffle...shuffle-shuffle-shuffle – and with every movement, the bed squeaks suggestively. 

“Will you quit moving around?” snaps Rodney, twisting to face John. 

“Sorry,” says John. “It’s a bit...mnugh. It’s not exactly comfortable.” 

“I know, but with all the racket you’re making, everyone will think we’re-” 

“Think we’re what, Rodney?” 

“Never mind,” says Rodney feeling his face flush. He’s glad that there’s no light in the room. “Just go to sleep.” 

“Okay.” 

Rodney drops his head on his pillow, plumping it up with a few well-aimed punches, and tries to go back to sleep. The noise of the bar is muted by the door and the cadence of the ambient chatter is rhythmic enough tonight to be relaxing rather than irksome. Between that and the heat of John’s body at his back, Rodney feels his eyelids getting heavy and his breathing slow down, in...and out...in...and out...in- 

“Rodney?” whispers John. 

By the Nine, how is a man supposed to get any sleep? “What?” says Rodney, hoping that he’s injected enough irritation into his voice to convey his displeasure at being kept awake. 

“Tell me how Calcelmo’s work fits in with yours.” 

Oh. That’s actually an intelligent question. “The Dwemer were masters of the heavens. They were far more technologically advanced than any other race. I give Calcelmo the context to be able to understand what they were researching.” 

“What do  _ you  _ get from your collaboration?” 

“I'm hoping to find a working Oculory.” 

“What’s an Oculory?” 

Rodney sighs, but there’s little malice in it. He rolls over to face John. “It’s a massive Dwemer clockwork structure used to study the night sky.” 

“Isn’t there one in the Imperial City?” asks John. 

“The Orrery?” scoffs Rodney. “That’s merely a model of the solar system. A fine piece of Dwemer engineering, sure, but not much use in the grand scheme of things.” 

“You really revere the Dwemer...” 

“Not so much revere. They managed to wipe themselves off the face of the planet. Clearly their technology was wasted on them.” 

“Oh,” says John, and there are several seconds of blessed silence. 

“Was there anything else?” asks Rodney. 

“No, that was it.” 

“Alright then. Get some sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow.” 

“Night Rodney.” 

“Good night John.” 

Rodney plumps his pillow again and turns back onto his side. John wriggles a little but quickly settles down and stills. His breath is loud in Rodney’s ear, so he must be facing the middle of the bed. Ordinarily Rodney would be annoyed, but he finds he doesn’t mind John’s closeness so much. It’s a comfort, he tells himself, nothing more. He waits for John to fall asleep, listens for the tell-tale slowing of his breath, the deepening of his inhale and exhale that comes with slumber, but it doesn’t happen. John’s so very  _ awake, _ and the silence is deafening in the dark. He clears his throat, and Rodney waits for whatever is coming next. Three, two, one... 

“The thing is, Rodney, there’s something I haven’t told everyone else.” 

“Oh?” says Rodney, pretending to be surprised. 

“Something that I think only affects me.” 

Rodney turns to face John, again, and seeks the glint of his eyes in the darkness. “What is it?” 

“In my dreams, there’s a city, with the tallest spires you’ve ever seen, only it’s not on Tamriel, it’s flying through the stars.” 

“A flying city? That’s-” 

“I know, I know, it’s preposterous. But in my dreams, it’s as real and as pressing as the circle of water. I’m sure it means something.” 

“Have you told anyone else about it?” 

“I...subtly inquired, but no one else seems to have dreamt about it either. Have you-” 

“No. I haven't. But that doesn’t mean it’s not important.” 

“I’m surprised you think so since it’s just a dream and flying cities are-” 

"One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible." 

John chuckles. “Spoken like a true scholar.” 

“This city...what does it look like?” 

“Elegant and beautiful, greys and blues and greens, stained glass windows and...” 

“And?” 

“I think it’s alive,” whispers John. 

“Like...a living, breathing organism?” 

“More like it has a soul. Could that be possible?” 

“I think...I think that if there is a city in the heavens, then it must be wondrous in ways we can’t imagine. What kind of people could create something like that?” 

“Maybe it’s a city of the Divines.” 

“Poppycock.” 

“You don't believe in the Divines?” asks John. 

“I don’t not believe in the Divines, ” says Rodney.  “ But not everything wonderous is divine in nature. Have you ever been to  Morrowind ? Homeland of the  Dunmer ? ”

“No.” 

“There are creatures in Morrowind, big and gentle, with bulbous bodies and long tentacles, as docile as the leaf on a tree. Netches, they call them. They seem to fly, though they have no wings, and people used to think them divine.” 

“But they’re not?” says John. 

“No. They’re not flying. Not too long ago, someone killed one and dissected it. They found that they have large air sacks in their bodies. They fill them with some kind of sour smelling air produced in their bodies and that’s what allows them to float above the ground.” 

“That kind of takes all the mystery out of it.” 

“And I guarantee that when we discover your city, what we find there will make it just as mundane as the netches are to the Dunmer.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s...something.” 

“Mmmm. Curiosity satisfied?” 

“Sure, sure. Thanks, Rodney.” 

“No problem.” 

Rodney pulls the blankets up and around his head, snuggling down ready to sleep for the last time. John inhales sharply, holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out slowly. 

“Hey, Rodney?” 

“Mmmm?” 

“What does the M stand for?” 

“Murderous, if I don’t get some sleep before dawn.” 

“Fair enough.” 

If John has any other questions, Rodney doesn’t find out. He falls asleep between one breath and the next, leaving Rodney to ponder over the mechanics of a flying city.


	3. The Healer Of Arkay

Rodney’s watching John check the girth of Puddlejumper’s saddle when two guards come running down the steps outside Markarth and into the stable. 

“Halt!” says one of the guards, and John turns around with his hands clearly visible. 

“Is there something wrong?” he asks, his face the very picture of cooperation. 

“Before I can let you leave, I will need to check your possessions.” 

“Alright,” says John, handing over his bag to the other guard, but Rodney’s not having any of it. 

“What are you looking for?” he asks. “Barrels of ale? Missing daughters? Perhaps we’ve smuggled a Dwemer Centurion out in our packs?” 

“There’s been a murder in the temple,” says the guard, ignoring Rodney’s sarcasm and watching as his companion rummages through the contents of the bag. “No one can leave until they’ve been searched and questioned.” 

“Oh my,” says John. “What happened?” 

“Someone killed the Sybil of Dibella. Slit her throat open and left her to bleed out over the alter.” 

“That’s awful,” says John, taking his bag back. 

The guard turns to Rodney. “Now you.” 

Rodney reluctantly hands over his pack and watches as the guard unlaces it and pulls things out. “Careful with those soul gems,” he says. “They’re fully charged.” The guard takes no notice of his caution, but then he didn’t really expect him to. It’ll be his own fault if he gets blown up. “What’s a Sybil of Dibella, anyway?” he asks. 

“She’s the High Priestess of the Temple of Dibella,” says the guard, tying up Rodney’s pack all wrong. “The leader of the clergy.” He hands the pack back. “You are cleared to leave.” 

There’s a commotion at the city gates as someone starts to wail inconsolably, their pained cries echoing down the mountain. Everyone turns to look as  Jen comes running down the steps, gaining speed with each stride, her feet light on the icy ground. A guard comes running after her, weighed down by his heavy armour, huffing and puffing as he strains to keep up.  Jen doesn’t stop until she runs smack bang into Rodney, her arms snaking around his neck as she cries into his robes. 

“The Sybil!” she cries. “She- she’s dead!” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, clenching his fists at his sides, not knowing what else he can say. 

“I just saw her yesterday,” sniffs  Jen . “In the temple. I went to pay my respects and- and now she’s gone...” 

“Ma’am,” says the guard who chased her down the steps, sucking in a breath as he recovers from the exertion. “Ma’am, I need to ask you if you saw anything suspicious during your visit yesterday.” 

Jen lets go of Rodney and wipes her eyes, ducking her head down low. “No,” she says. “I wish I had, then I’d have been able to stop it.” 

“Was there anyone else in the temple, anyone other than the priestesses? Someone visiting, or-” 

Jen shakes her head vigorously. “No. There was no one else.” 

“Not even-” 

“And I was only there for a few minutes anyway. Anyone could have snuck past me. Anyone.” 

“I see,” says the guard, clearly disappointed. “I need to check your-” 

“Oh, Goddess, it’s unbearable, it’s-”  Jen breaks down in tears again, but instead of turning to Rodney for comfort, she flings her arms around the guard and holds on for dear life. The guard looks to Rodney and John for help, then his colleagues, his arms hovering over her trembling form and his eyes wide with discomfort. At  Jen ’s increasingly loud wailing, he blanches and pats her gently on the back with a gloved hand. 

“There, there,” he says, unenthusiastically, and his fellow guards' mouths pull tight in an attempt not to laugh at their colleague’s embarrassment. When Jen finally  lets go and wipes her face with her  sleeve, he takes a hasty step back out of arm’s reach. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, and he turns and hightails it back into the city, the other guards following close behind. 

“So are we,” says Rodney, and John nods his head, once. 

“I didn’t realise you were so close to her,” he says. 

Jen scrubs at her face and blows her nose on a handkerchief. “Well,” she says with a smile. “She’s with Dibella now, so it could be worse.” 

Rodney’s a little unsettled by the switch  Jen ’s switch in demeanour, her eyes puffy and red but her smile genuine. He doesn’t say anything about it, he’s not an idiot, and besides, they’re all thankful that the tears have stopped.  Jen blows her nose again then goes over to Ronon’s horse (Omi, Ronon had called him) and checks him over while they wait for the others to join them in the stable. John takes Rodney's bag from his hand and ties it down to  Puddlejumper’s saddle, then ties his own on the other side. Without the bags of books and scrolls Rodney travels light, but he still wonders if he should loan another horse from the stablemaster. The thing that makes him hesitate is the fact that he’s not sure when he’d be able to return it. Between the quest to find a healer in  Riften and then their travels up north, it could be a while before he’s able to come back to  Markarth again. The amount of gold he’d need to pay for a loan with no end-date is almost incalculable and at the very least a lot more than he is carrying with him. 

Teyla, Ronon and Radek catch up with them, having finally escaped the scrutiny of the guards just inside the gate. Ronon’s not as irked as Rodney expected him to be by the delay, he simply nods at them and mounts his horse, flinging his dreads over his shoulders as he gets comfortable. Radek’s bifocals are askew and he’s hurriedly pushing things down into his bag to get them to fit again; no doubt his careful packing was messed up by the guards’ fumbling hands. Teyla seems unbothered by the commotion, she gives  Jen an affectionate hug then heads over to where her and Radek’s horses are hitched to a post and starts checking her mare over, running her hands down its neck and flank, smoothing her fingers over its nose. The horse seems to relax under her ministrations, and she smiles as it headbutts her in the chest. Teyla’s coat billows out when she mounts her, and she clicks and speaks to her horse in a soothing lilt. 

“Easy, Tegan.” 

Rodney pulls a letter out of his pocket and holds it out to Jen, who’s stopped sniffing and is beaming at Radek as he mounts Pidgeon, his old, grey mare. “Give this to Urag gro-Shub, the custodian of the Arcanaeum in the College. He’s a grumpy old orc, but he’ll help you find the books you’re looking for.” 

Jen takes the letter from Rodney and slips it into her pack. “You sure you don’t want to come to the College?” she asks. 

“I wasn’t kidding about the Arch-Mage,” says Rodney. “If I go back, he’ll try to keep me there. I’d either have to give up on this quest or give up on the college. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” 

“All right, my asocial mage, have it your way,” says  Jen , and she pushes up onto her tiptoes, presses both hands into Rodney’s shoulders, and kisses him chastely on both cheeks. 

John appears out of nowhere and grabs Rodney by the arm. “Time to go, Rodney,” he says, casting a scowl Jen’s way. Rodney isn’t sure what the deal is between them, but John refuses point blank to call her 'Jen’ and though he smiles often, none of them are aimed at her. She seems to take no offence to his sharpness; she gives Rodney a knowing glance and wishes them both safe travels. Ronon pulls her up onto his horse and they set off at great speed, thundering down the hill from  Markarth’s stables and around the corner out of sight. They should make  Winterhold by tomorrow evening, in time for  Tolfdir’s duelling club, which will provide an adequate distraction to the lecturers and allow them to enter the Arcanaeum, the library of the college, unhindered. Urag and Rodney have an understanding based on mutual respect for historical writings on magic, so he will no doubt direct Jen and Ronon to the appropriate texts covering potential ruins on the northern islands of Skyrim. 

If they don’t find anything at the college, perhaps Teyla and Radek will be successful in Solitude? The capital city has an abundance of old scrolls and journals, and if Teyla truly has an accord with Jarl  Elisif then she’ll gain access to the largest accumulation of ancient writings in all of Skyrim. Teyla and Radek mount their respective horses then bid them a fond goodbye, and soon follow Jen and Ronon out of the stables, heading north where the others went south and leaving Rodney and John with Puddlejumper in the yard of the stable. 

“I was thinking-” begins Rodney. 

“She can take it,” interrupts John. 

“Who? What?” 

“Puddlejumper. She’s a warhorse. I got her from an old Nord soldier who fought in the war. She’s used to carrying twice her weight in steel barding as well as a rider and  _ his  _ weapons and armour. The two of us will barely register.” 

“Oh,” says Rodney, peering at the horse. She seems sturdy, he supposes. “Well, I guess-” 

“Do you prefer to ride up front or behind?” asks John. 

“I...uh...we could switch?” 

John grins. “Deal.” 

*** 

It’s a long time since breakfast, and Rodney’s getting hungry; his stomach rumbles unpleasantly with each dip in  Puddlejumper’s gait. He clings onto the horn of the saddle with both hands, letting the horse have the rein because there is only one road to take here and she seems content to stay on track by herself. John holds on around his waist, comfortably pressed against Rodney’s back, occasionally talking in his ear about things that they see on their journey or allusions to things that he’s seen and done in the past. Rodney gets a vague mental picture from John’s ramblings of his life before he met Teyla and Ronon. He’s a loner, but whether by choice or fate it’s hard to tell; he doesn’t speak of his family, perhaps he doesn’t even have one. He tells tales of his time in the military, fighting in the Great War, but doesn’t overtly state whether he was on the side of the Empire or the Dominion and any questions Rodney asks are deflected with humour. He’s very vocal, however, about the White-Gold Concordat – the agreement between the two sides that ended the war – decrying it as “an absolute fucking disaster thought up by unelected politicians with no respect for the sacrifices made by the men and mer in the war” and he grants no quarter to any opinion that contradicts his own. (It’s just as well that Rodney agrees wholeheartedly with him.) He also notes that John is light in the hand as well as on foot when he catches Rodney’s staff as it falls perilously to the ground, having slid out of its bindings on the saddle when  Puddlejumper hopped a ditch. Rodney thanks him profusely; staves are thought to be pretty much invincible but he knows from experience that the trampling of hooves can render one impotent, or at the very least finickity. 

“Finickity?” snorts John. “That’s not a word.” 

“It is so a word, you milk-drinking, lackadaisical oaf!” 

Speaking of breakfast, Rodney’s having second thoughts about the plan they all made this morning over lavender dumplings and hot tea. Teyla proposed that they all meet up in  Dawnstar when they’re done with their respective tasks and that they should all keep an eye out for more of Avatars on their travels. That’s all well and good, but there’s no knowing just how long it will take for each group to complete their objectives, and John and Rodney have the furthest to travel;  Riften is in the south-easternmost point of Skyrim, it will take them two days to get there and then another two to reach  Dawnstar , and that’s not including the time it will take to A) find the healer and B) convince him to join up with them. Teyla and Radek have only two days travel (one to Solitude, then one to  Dawnstar ) and Ronon and Jen only have three in total, even if they take the long way from  Winterhold to  Dawnstar and don’t cut across the north pass, it’s less than a day’s journey. They’ll all get to twiddle their thumbs and laze around reading books while Rodney and John do all the hard work. 

Rodney tried to explain this to the group, in hushed tones so as not to rouse Teyla’s displeasure, but he was disrupted by Ronon loudly ribbing him and John for their “night-time activities” and Rodney, red-faced and wide-eyed, had stopped in the middle of his rant to hiss an admonishment to John for his constant wriggling on the Very. Loud. Bed. John only grinned and dunked torn pieces of his dumpling in his tea, and the rest of the group had chuckled animatedly. Even Teyla, hitherto so calm and serene, had a giggle at their expense. Rodney wanted to stand up and storm away, but John pulled on his sleeve and whispered to him that it was a rite of passage and not to let it get to him which had calmed him down some. Enough to finish breakfast at least. What’s really getting to Rodney is the fact that he can’t stop thinking about it; about carnal and nocturnal activities with this rakish and flirtatious warrior of sword and shield, what it would feel like to touch his skin, taste his lips, feel his- 

“We should cut through Falkreath and take the mountain pass,” says John, interrupting Rodney’s train of thought. “That way we’ll make it to Riften tonight.” 

“Very late tonight, I should wager,” says Rodney. 

“It cuts a whole day off our travels though. Don’t you want to get there before this healer decides he wants to move on?” 

“Yes, but what about the trolls?” 

“Trolls?” 

“Frost trolls, hiding in the underbrush of the mountain pass, just waiting for the poor, unsuspecting traveller to pass by and pounce!” 

John squeezes Rodney around his middle. “We’re hardly poor and unsuspecting, and besides, we’re a warrior and a mage, we can handle a couple of trolls.” 

“Yes, well...” 

“C’mon Rodney! We’re on a quest!” 

“I suppose...” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

When they hit the edge of Lake  Ilinalta , they take the south path to  Falkreath instead of the east path to  Whiterun , cutting through the great forest that covers the entire hold in evergreen trees. Rodney’s still hungry when they spot the town itself, barely a village really with rundown buildings and a poorly maintained outer wall made of sharpened logs and held together by twine and a prayer. Rodney takes a breath to ask if they can stop in the inn for lunch, but John just takes the reigns and guides  Puddlejumper onto the ring road that circles the outside of the town. 

“We’re not stopping here,” he says. “It’s a literal graveyard. Helgen’s only an hour away, and if I remember rightly they have the nicest mead in all of Skyrim.” 

Mead does sound good, and it’s true that  Falkreath has the largest graveyard in all of Skyrim, so Rodney doesn’t argue, just digs his heels into  Puddlejumper’s flank and eases her into a rolling canter to get to Helgen as soon as they can. 

*** 

The town of Helgen is small and compact, surrounded on all sides by thick log fencing and towering stone walls, and entrance is only possible through one of three giant sets of double gates. Rodney pulls Puddlejumper to a stop in front of the inn and they dismount onto the solid ground. Even John is a little wobbly on his legs from riding the entire morning and he staggers as he tries to steady himself on his feet. Rodney follows him into The Trolls Head Inn, where the smell of an entire deer carcass roasting over the central fire pit and the sound of the off-key tones of a ruddy-cheeked bard assault Rodney’s senses. Rodney squeals when he spots a literal troll's head hanging on the wall above the bar and the few patrons within earshot turn to look at them as John pulls him through the crowd and up to the counter. 

“Afternoon Vilod,” says John to the chiselled Nord wiping the bar down with a wet rag. 

“Well, well. If it isn’t John Sheppard,” says Vilod. “Thought you went up north on some quest? Didn’t expect to see you again any time soon.” 

“Well, my travels lead me back to the start, so to speak.” 

“Who’s your friend?” 

John half turns to Rodney. “Vilod, this is Rodney McKay, a scholar of the College of Winterhold. Rodney, this is Vilod, innkeeper of The Trolls Head.” He turns back to Vilod. “Any chance of some of that juniper mead you’re so famous for?” 

“You’re in luck. I just opened up a new keg. Have a seat and I’ll bring a couple of flagons over. You boys hungry?” 

“Famished,” says Rodney, his stomach rumbling audibly. 

“Yeah, bring us a couple of plates of whatever’s good,” says John, and he forks some gold out of a pouch in his pocket to pay for their lunch. He turns around and leads Rodney to a table by the fire, the only one with any space, where a blonde woman is sitting, drinking from a flagon with a bow in her lap. “Hey Angi,” says John. “Mind if we join you?” 

Angi looks up at them and her mouth widens into a genuine smile. “Sheppard, good to see you. Have a seat, both of you.” 

John takes the seat next to Angi with his back to the wall, and he kicks out the chair opposite for Rodney. When Rodney sits, John’s legs are right  _ there, _ right in his foot space, and showing no signs of pulling back. Rodney presses his leg into John’s calf as he tries to stretch out, and John presses back, watching Rodney out of the corner of his eye as he turns to Angi and makes small talk with her about handmade fletching. Rodney half listens to them, never one to get involved in inane chatter about things he doesn’t care for, and instead looks around the inn. The place is overflowing with patrons, men and women dressed in furs and carrying weapons on their backs and in their belts.  Vilod approaches the firepit with the biggest carving knife Rodney’s ever seen and slices off generous steaks of venison from the roasting carcass, turning it on the spit when he’s done. The steaks are dropped onto two large plates piled with bread and preserved tomatoes, cheese and spring greens. Rodney’s mouth waters at the sight as  Vilod brings them over to the table and places them down in front of him and John. A woman comes over from the bar with their flagons of juniper berry mead and she puts them down with a simpering smile at John, sparing the barest of glances in Rodney’s direction. Rodney doesn't care, he only has eyes for his lunch, and he shovels the greens straight into his mouth while John pulls apart his bread, still talking with Angi but eating as politely as he can. 

The bard picks up her flute, thank goodness, and starts to play a lively little tune. Rodney’s glad for the reprieve from her voice. He just doesn’t understand the Nord’s obsession with vocal music and poetry, awfully long Epics and Eddas depicting battlefields long reclaimed by Kynareth’s flora and fauna, people so long dead that even their progeny don’t know the real version of events. But a nice piece of instrumental music is always a pleasant thing to listen to and perks him right up. He washes down his food with a little mead, which is a lot better than he expected it to be, and chokes over it when a foot starts sliding up his calf. He splutters for a moment, wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his robe and looks to John, the only person close enough to touch despite the number of people in the inn. John looks his way briefly as he and Angi segue onto the difficulty of finding bird feathers in good enough condition to use in arrow making, and the foot moves a little higher, brushing the inside of his knee. Rodney jumps to his feet, knocking the table with a clunk, and John and Angi both turn to look right at him. 

“Uh...excuse me...little boy’s room...” 

“Out the back door and across the yard,” says Angi, smiling at him as he makes a hasty retreat to the rear door of the inn. He pushes it open and steps out into the cold, breathing in deep  lungfuls of the chilled air and stepping down off the steps and onto the ground. There are benches in the yard, and he sits down on one for a few moments to give himself time to cool off a little. John doesn’t mean anything by it...does he? Sure, he’s been awfully suggestive since they met, but it’s just his way. He’s like that with everyone, clearly, since Angi and the waitress were both mesmerised by him, and they’ve obviously met before, maybe even known each other carnally. Maybe Rodney’s first impression was correct, and he’s a gigolo. Maybe he really can’t help the effect he’s having on Rodney. By the nine, why didn’t Rodney insist on getting his own horse? 

The sound of the door opening grabs Rodney’s attention and he looks up to see John slipping out, both their travel bags in hand. John presses a finger to his lips before Rodney can say anything, and holds out a pack for Rodney to take, leading him out of the yard and around to the front of the building, crouching low underneath the windows until they reach the horses. They cut  Puddlejumper loose just as Angi’s voice pours out of the inn – “Scholar McKay is due here any minute now. Why don’t you wait by the fire until he gets here?” – and lead her quietly up the road and through the double gates to the east. John boosts Rodney up onto  Puddlejumper’s back then swings himself up in front of him, nudging her into motion. When they’re clear of Helgen, he kicks her into a canter, then a gallop, and Rodney holds on and on as the ground passes underneath  Puddlejumper’s hooves. John pulls her to a stop halfway up the mountain pass, jumps down and lets her drink from a stream that’s too fast to freeze over. Rodney jumps down too, waits for John to explain his behaviour as he busies himself checking the bags on the saddle. When he doesn’t, Rodney just has to speak up. 

“What just happened?” he asks. 

“Men came into the inn,” says John as he pulls the cords tight on Rodney’s bag. “They were asking about you. Same long, black robes as the group that attacked you near Markarth.” 

“I didn’t really see the people who attacked me before. I was paralysed, if you remember.” 

“Right.” 

“What do they want with me?” 

“I have no idea, but it can’t be anything good.” 

“What do we do now, then?” 

“Stick to the plan. We go looking for the healer in Riften. There’s safety in numbers.” 

Rodney looks at the road ahead, the mountain path climbing up higher and higher until it crests and tumbles down the other side. If they just keep going East they’ll hit Riften by nightfall, but they could still turn back, skirt around Helgen and head North onto the road to Whiterun. Those roads are patrolled night and day by guards that will surely help if they are attacked. 

“We can’t go back,” says John, and yet again Rodney wonders if he can read minds. 

“Why not?” 

“They’re looking for you, for us. There’s no way through. We’re lucky to have gotten out when we did. If Angi hadn’t distracted them for us, we might not have been able to avoid a fight.” 

“Hmmm. And you trust this Angi?” Rodney can’t help it if a little bit of his irritation slips out of his mouth. 

“I had her back last time I was in Helgen. This time she has mine.” 

“How so?” 

“She got into it with a guy out in the wilderness. I was passing by, helped her convince him to stop pestering her.” 

“Oh.” 

“Trust is earned. She trusts me, so I can trust her to do the right thing. Come on. I want to get to Riften as quickly as possible.” 

*** 

The first thing that Rodney notices as they approach Riften is the smell; an acrid odour of backed up sewer systems and gutted fish, the sickly aroma of fermenting mead and the dark, damp smell of a city in ruin. He’s less than surprised when the town guards shake them down at the gates, and very much appreciates the way that John talks them round in circles until they’re allowed to enter, their coin purses no lighter in their pockets. The whole city is a slum, even the more affable houses show signs of disrepair and decay, and the people are sullen and grim. John spots a tavern in the middle of the city, across a bridge that spans the waterway, several decrepit abodes lying below it at water level. The Bee and Barb, it’s called. It’s one step up from a Skooma Den, all rotting wood walls and missing tiled roofs. Rodney really doesn’t want to enter, but John seems to think that taverns and inns are the best places to get information, and the sooner they find this doctor, the sooner they can move on. 

When John opens the door, the noise of a bustling tavern comes flooding out, the light of so many candles blinding in the darkness of the night. They step inside into absolute chaos; groups of people taking up every last centimetre of the room, games of cards being played on every table, there’s something sticky on the floor, it’s filthy and dusty and- 

“Isn’t this great?” says John, really loud and right into Rodney’s ear, and Rodney still has to strain to hear him. 

“No!” shouts Rodney over the din. “Let’s just find our man and get out of here!” 

John pushes through the crowds to the bar, finds the  Argonian barkeeper cheerfully pouring ale and handing out snacks. Rodney doesn’t hear the conversation they have over the noise, but the woman quickly points them into a little nook next to the bar, an archway leading into a semi-private room. Inside they find two men, one large and imposing, a head of greying hair and arms as thick as tree trunks, the other blue-eyed with ruddy cheeks, waving a flagon around in his hands. 

“I just can’t believe it, healer,” says grey-hair, loud and slow like someone who’s drunk far too much ale and is trying to pass for sober. “You did it, you birthed my little girl! I thought she was a goner, it was taking so long!” 

“You’re welcome,” says the healer, his accent thick and unfamiliar, voice equally slow and measured. “There’s nothing I like more than a successful birth.” He lifts his flagon. “To new life,” he says, and they clank their drinks together, spilling so much liquid that their sleeves are wet through. They take long, deep drinks and slam the flagons down on the table. Grey-hair pulls the healer into a hug and they thump each other’s backs hard. He gets up to leave, squeezing between John and Rodney to get out of the room - “Scuse me...” - leaving the healer alone on the bench. John ambles in and sits down next to him. 

“Hi, John Sheppard,” he says, holding out a hand. 

“Carson Beckett,” says the healer, taking John’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “What ails you?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Ah! A healthy client! How exciting!” Carson starts sliding down on the bench, so Rodney sits down on his other side to prop him up. 

“We’re not exactly clients,” he says. “We’re looking for the Avatar of Arkay.” 

“Oh! You’re fans of the god of the cycle of life and death, are you? Let me show you something, you’re both gonna love this.” Carson rolls up the sleeve of his robe and waves his arm in John’s face. “I’m blessed by Arkay himself.” 

John grabs a hold of Carson’s hand to keep it steady and shows Rodney his arm. Right there on his wrist are the points of the interlocking squares of Arkay, a sure sign that they’ve found the right person. 

“How do you feel about adventures?” asks Rodney. 

“Life is the greatest adventure!” says Carson, waving his hands in the air. “From birth to death, we are all adventurers in the game of life.” 

“That’s great, but I was meaning something more literal.” 

“Oh, you boys. Are you sure there’s nothing I can cure you of? Ataxia? Collywobbles?  Porphyric Haemophilia? Or is it something a little more...intimate? I can cure diseases of the penis just as easily as those of the rest of the body. Come on now, don’t be shy. Drop your breeches. Let’s see what troubles you.” 

“Shor’s blood,” says Rodney. “I think we should wait until he sobers up.” 

“Yeah,” says John. “Where are you sleeping tonight, Healer Beckett? Uh...Carson?” John shakes Carson’s shoulder, but the man just slumps down even further and starts to snore. “Well, I guess that answers that question.” 

They lay Carson down on the bench, lifting his feet up and onto the seat. It’s clear he’s been celebrating the birth he attended for some time and won’t wake until dawn at the earliest. John goes to ask the innkeeper for a blanket to cover him with, and Rodney stays to keep watch. A woman walks in, long blonde hair draped over her bare shoulders, painted red lips in a pout that would bring most men to their knees, a  Dibellan amulet lying deep in her décolletage. 

“New around Riften?” she asks Rodney. “If you’re looking for somewhere to sleep, my bunkhouse has ample room.” 

“I hope it’s a lot cleaner than this place. The dust alone is going to kill me.” 

“If it’s cleanliness you’re looking for, I have a spacious bathtub in my room that we could make use of.” 

“Uh...we? I-I'm not sure that I-” 

“There you are, Rodney!” says John, slipping in front of the woman with a blanket and grabbing Rodney’s arm in his hand. He shoots a dirty look over his shoulder before handing the blanket to Rodney, who drapes it over Carson’s unconscious form. 

“I’ve booked us a room,” says John. “Last one in the inn.” 

Rodney looks back at the woman, who rolls her eyes and leaves. “That’s great,” he says, relieved. 

“Let’s get something to eat, then we can turn in. No doubt the healer will sleep in late.” 

They sit on stools at the bar and order a light dinner and some of the local Black-Briar mead. It’s cold and sweet, a little earthy, and Rodney can almost taste the slave labour. He just hopes that the water that goes into it isn’t from the waterway underneath the city. John chats to the innkeeper, Keerava, to get a lay of the land. As Rodney makes a start on his dinner, he feels a hand grab his shoulder and turns his head to get a look at whoever’s touching him. 

“Excuse me,” says a woman as she leans over him to reach the salt mill. Her eyes are a deep, dark blue and her hair is ebony black. She strains and reaches until Rodney takes pity on her and hands her his own. “Thanks,” she says and makes to move away. John’s hand shoots out and grabs her wrist in a firm grip. 

“Give it back,” he says, menacingly, and she looks at him with a face of pure innocence. 

“I don’t know what you-” 

“Don’t play coy. His coin purse. Give it back. I won’t ask again.” 

The woman tuts, but does as he  asks, and Rodney finds his own coin purse being pressed into his hands. 

“How did you-?” 

“Distraction,” says John. “She’s a thief. A good one by the looks of things.” 

“What now?” asks the woman, and she looks pointedly at John’s hand wrapped around her wrist. 

“Tell you what,” says John. “If you and yours leave us alone, then we won’t have a problem. Deal?” 

The woman hesitates for a moment, but when John waits her out, she nods her head. “Deal,” she says, and John lets go. She backs off and disappears into the crowd. 

“How did you know?” asks Rodney. 

“It’s an obvious trick,” says John, taking a bite of his dinner. 

“Not to me.” 

“No, I suppose not. You aren’t really aware of your surroundings, are you?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just that you have a tendency to withdraw from the world around you.” John licks up the liquid dripping down the side of his hand. “I guess it’s a mage thing.” 

John’s oblivious as Rodney stares, utterly mesmerised, at his tongue as it licks his fingers clean. He has half a mind to offer up his own hand for attention, greasy from the bread filled with fried meats. Pulling his eyes away from John he catches the eye of the Keerava and asks to be shown to their room, and they both follow her up the stairs and across the corridor to a surprisingly large bedroom, one double bed in the centre and a washbasin already filled to the brim. Keerava closes the door behind herself and they’re alone, just the two of them, sharing a bed for the second night in a row. Rodney kicks off his boots and tries to be surreptitious as he smells the water in the washbasin for anything unpalatable, but it’s clean and clear and odourless. He strips off his top half and sets to himself with the provided washcloth and soap, paying close attention to his hands and armpits, then dries off and gets into the bed in his breeches. John takes his turn at the washbasin then joins him, blowing out the candles all over the room before he gets into the sheets that are surprisingly clean for all the dirt in the bar downstairs. Just one candle remains lit, the one on Rodney's side of the bed, but he hesitates to blow it out. 

“Do you think he’ll come with us?” he asks John. 

“He seems an affable fellow,” says John, carefully. “I think we’ll bring him around, especially if he takes the Divine stuff seriously.”

“Do you? Take it seriously, I mean.”

John licks his lips and they glint in the candlelight. “I...I’m certain the Divines are real but...I just don’t think they care all that much about our lives. I don’t see the point in worshipping them just because they’re more powerful than we are. What about you?” 

“I don't have time to worship something that doesn’t even have the courtesy to make  itself known,” says Rodney. 

“That sounds like an answer you’ve had to give a lot.” 

“The Arch-Mage is the religious sort. He’s always trying to get us to be more pious. I’m just not that way inclined. Besides, there are  _ nine _ of the damn things. And sure, Julianos is scientifically minded, but if he is so great why doesn't he come down here and give me a little guidance with my research? A hint, a nudge, a suggestion. Anything at all would be welcome. It’s a waste of power if you ask me. Which you did.” 

When Rodney looks over, John’s smiling, amused and happy. “Yes, I did,” he says and he turns on his back. “Good night, Rodney.” 

“Good night, John.”


	4. The Priestess Of Mara

Carson’s face, when Rodney wakes him up, is  _ murderous, _ simply murderous. He scowls up at him then closes his eyes, sags a little to the left as Rodney helps him sit up. John sets down a flagon of watered-down ale with a  thunk and instructs the hungover healer to drink it up. 

“Hair of the dog,” he says. “It’ll help.” 

Carson downs it in one go then stands up, stumbling over the edge of the table and almost tripping over the blanket that he kicked off in the night. 

“Hold your horses,” says Rodney, grabbing hold of Carson by the shoulders. 

“Need a widdle,” says Carson 

“A what?” 

Carson just looks at Rodney until he lets go, then stumbles out of the room and through the bar. 

“I don’t understand,” says Rodney to John. 

“He just needs to drain the snake,” says John. 

“Well, why didn’t he just say so?” 

“He did.” 

Rodney huffs then grabs the blanket off the floor and folds it up. He takes it and the empty flagon to Keerava and hands them both over. She points them to a table where three breakfasts are waiting for them, and they sit down and make a start on their food. Carson comes back, swearing loudly when he stubs his toe on a bench, trying to balance on one leg while the ache subsides. John flags him down and directs him to his breakfast plate and he apologises for the profanity. 

“I think I’m still a wee bit bladdered this morning,” he says. 

“Yes, well, you did drink yourself under the table,” says Rodney. “All things considered, you’ve gotten off lightly, so thank your lucky stars.” 

“If I may ask, gentlemen, I can’t actually remember what you said your troubles are. What did you need to see me about?” 

“An adventure,” says Rodney, while John says “A quest.” 

“You need a healer on your journey?” asks Carson. 

“No,” says John. “We need the Avatar of Arkay.” 

“Avatar of Arkay, aye? Well, I’ve not come across him or her in my travels, so I’m afraid I can’t be of any assistance.” 

“The thing is,” says Rodney. “You might be the man we’re looking for.” 

“I’m no Avatar,” says Carson. 

“We think you are.” 

“Why?” 

“You have the mark of Arkay on your wrist.” 

“Aye, that I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m-” 

“You’re marked by the gods,” says John. “It’s up to you if you want to do something about that or not, but it would be a waste of their confidence in you if you don’t fulfil your destiny. Arkay seems to think you’re the man for the job, otherwise he wouldn’t have marked you with his sigil.” 

“You talk a good talk, but-” 

“You’ve had the dreams, haven’t you?” asks Rodney. “A great stone ring with a wall of blue water.” 

Carson looks gobsmacked at Rodney’s words. “How did you know that?” 

“We’ve had them too,” says John. “There are six of us, so far. I'm the Avatar of Talos...” He shows Carson his wrist. “Show him yours, Rodney.” 

Rodney rolls up his sleeve and shows Carson his mark. 

“Julianos,” says Carson. “Who else have you found?” 

“Kynareth, Stendarr, Dibella, and Zenithar,” says Rodney. “We’re looking for Arkay, Mara and-” 

“Akatosh,” says Carson, definitively. 

“Yes.” 

“I might know of a man with the markings of Akatosh.” 

“You do?” says John. 

“Aye. A poor soul here in Riften. If I was a betting man I’d say he was cursed by the gods rather than blessed. He’s a Skooma addict. Lives down in the sewers by the canal. I’m treating him for addiction and Blood Lung.” 

“What’s Blood Lung?” asks Rodney. 

“It’s a disease of the respiratory system that saps all of your energy. I’m treating it with herbal steam infusions. So far he’s on the mend. I’m of a mind to visit him this morning, the two of you could come with me if you’d like. I’m sure Aiden would appreciate the company.” 

“And you?” asks John. “Will you come with us?” 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but aye, I will. After I’ve checked on a couple of patients.” 

They finish their breakfasts, then follow Carson out of the Bee and Barb and across the wooden bridge. Instead of taking them into any of the buildings, he leads them out of the main gates and down to the stables where they left their horses. The grey-haired man from the night before is tending a mare in one of the stalls, and Carson makes a beeline for him. 

“Hofgrir,” says Carson. 

“Healer,” says the man. “Come to check up on my baby girl?” 

“Aye. How are the wee bairn and her mother this morning.” 

“Look for yourself,” says Hofgrir, and he opens up the stall gate to let them all in. Inside, the mare is chewing on some hay while a foal suckles at her teat. 

“This is the baby?” asks Rodney. “You’re a healer of animals?” 

“I’m a healer of people,” says Carson. “It just so happens that a lot of the things that ail man and mer also ail horses. She had a rough day of it trying to birth her wee one. I only assisted in the natural course of things.” 

“I didn’t think either of them was going to make it,” admits Hofgrir. “I’m eternally grateful for Healer Beckett’s assistance.” 

“I’m glad to see they’re neither of them the worse for their ordeal,” says Beckett. “Alright, next patient.” 

They head back into the city and Carson leads them down some rickety stairs onto a precarious jetty on the canal. There are several watermarked doors set back into the stone. Carson opens a particularly rotten looking one and ushers them inside. It’s dark and dingy, but Rodney can make out a man lying on a bed of hay bales, his dark skin ashen with illness and his eyes bloodshot and out of focus. A bow lies propped up against the wall, and not just any bow, a glass bow. It’s polished and sturdy but old in style and well used. Those things don’t come cheap, especially the ones as old and well maintained as that one, and Rodney wonders briefly if it is stolen before chastising himself for assuming the worst of a complete stranger. He’s heard about Skooma addicts, how they have little to no shame and will do just about anything for a draw of their poison, but he can’t make assumptions about a man he’s only just clapped eyes on, it simply isn’t done. 

“Aiden?” says Carson. 

“Greetings Carson,” says the man as he stirs. He looks up and spots Rodney and John by the door. “Who're your friends?” 

“Aiden Ford, these are...uh...I’m sorry, I forgot your names.” 

John steps forward and holds out a hand. “John Sheppard,” he says, and Aiden shakes his hand. “This is Rodney McKay, he’s a scholar out of Winterhold.” 

Aiden reaches over to Rodney, and Rodney reluctantly shakes his cold, clammy hand. He wipes his palm on his robes when Aiden is distracted by Carson checking him over, but John doesn't miss the movement. He smirks at Rodney, then turns his attention back to Aiden. 

“You’ve been using again,” says Carson, after a few minutes. 

“Come on Healer, I-” 

“Don’t lie to me son. I’m not your mother.” Carson lifts up Aiden’s top and leans down to listen to his lungs. When he’s satisfied with the sound, he sits up again and feels Aiden’s pulse at the wrist. “I’m not judging you, but you were so keen to get off the Skooma, you must be disappointed.” 

“Honestly, I’m not. It’s not like I’m one of those addicts who’ll sell his body on the corner of the docks to fund his  addiction. It doesn’t affect my skills as an archer and I can still work. I’m not spending my days lying around in bed. If I can just clear this damn Blood  Lung I’ll be able to get back to work.  Skooma or no  Skooma .” 

“Alright,” says Carson, prodding at Aiden’s abdomen. “It’s your body, therefore it’s your choice. It’s not the choice I would make, but I can see that you’re not going to be swayed by my honeyed words.” Carson pulls Aiden’s top back down. “These men have a proposition for you if you’d like to hear it.” 

“Hey, come on,” says Aiden, looking a little dismayed and a lot freaked out. “I already told you guys, I’m not selling my-” 

“By the Nine!” snaps Rodney. “It’s not that kind of proposition. Neither of us is that kind of man that we’d take advantage of another’s weakness!” 

John smooths his hand down Rodney’s arm to calm him. “We’re on a quest,” he says, quickly. “We’re looking for the Avatars of the Divines. Carson here said you’re marked by Akatosh.” 

“I am,” says Aiden, warily. 

“Have you been having any strange dreams?” asks Rodney. “Walls of blue water and-” 

“Symbols on a stone ring. How did you know about that?” asks Aiden, his eyes wide. 

“We’ve all had them too.” 

“You too, Healer?” asks Aiden. 

“Aye,” says Carson. “Me too.” 

“So you want me to come with you, travel north?” 

“You know the location?” asks John. 

“No, I just know something’s been telling me to travel north to find the giant stone ring. For weeks now.” 

“There are seven of us already. You are more than welcome to join us.” 

“Even with the addiction?” 

“Even with the addiction,” says Rodney. “As long as you help us, I don’t care what you put in your body.” 

“What have you got to lose?” asks Carson. “Your life here isn’t exactly Cyrodilic Brandy and Eider Cheese. You’ve probably lost your dead-end job in the Meadery due to your sickness, you’re sleeping in squalor and you’ve nae lass to tie you down. An adventure could be just what the healer ordered.” 

“I'll go if you are,” Aiden says to Carson, giving Rodney a glimpse of his youth and insecurity despite all his cocksure words about his life. He wonders what could lead such a kind, unassuming soul to a life of addiction and destitution. 

“I am,” says Carson, “Like you, I’ve been feeling the pull to go north. I cannae ignore it now that others are involved. There’s a good chance someone will need my particular skills.” 

Aiden swings his legs over the side of the hay and sits up slowly. He leans forward and pulls something out from between the bales. It’s a small purple bottle with a black stopper, something Rodney’s never seen before but he can guess what it is. Aiden takes a few short sips from it then plunges the stopper back in, reaching for his boots with his other hand as he tucks it into his pocket. 

“So where are we going then?” he asks. 

“That’s...a good question,” says Carson, looking over to where Rodney and John are standing. 

“We said we’d meet the others in Dawnstar,” says John. “You two should head there.” 

“Without you?” says Aiden, surprised. 

“We still have someone to find,” says Rodney. “The avatar of Mara.” 

“This avatar, would she have the marking of Mara on her wrist?” asks Aiden. “Like I do Akatosh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I know where you should start looking. Mother Elizabeth in the temple of Mara is touched by her goddess. She comes down most days to give me and the others some food. She’s a really nice lady. Everyone in Riften likes her. Except maybe Maven Black-Briar.” 

“Who’s Maven Black-Briar?” asks Rodney. 

“She thinks she’s the power behind the throne,” says Aiden. “Always whispering in the ear of the Jarl. She owns half of Riften, including the meadery.”

“She’s not that bad,” says Carson. “A little abrupt, perhaps, but-” 

“She’s as devious as a Deadric Prince when it comes to her business. Two of my colleagues have up and disappeared in the night after complaining about her docking their wages.” 

“And there’s a fair chance they had too much mead and took a wrong turn on the docks.” 

“There’s an even fairer chance that she had a hand in it. Not much happens in Riften that she isn’t involved in.” 

Carson helps Aiden stand and when he’s shouldered his bow, the four of them head back outside and up the wooden stairs. Rodney holds onto the back of John’s armour to keep himself from falling when the steps undulate under their combined weight, because of course there’s no handrail in this gods’ forsaken place. John reaches back to grasp Rodney around the wrist and pulls him up the last few steps and onto solid ground. Carson has only modest means from his work as a healer, being inclined to work in exchange for goods and a roof over his head rather than coin, and neither he nor Aiden have a horse so Rodney and John contribute some of their own personal gold to pay for a carriage to  Dawnstar . Rodney discreetly passes Carson a purse of extra coins for food and shelter at their half-way stop in  Whiterun , wanting to keep it from Aiden’s eyes, not knowing if he’s the kind of man who would steal to fund his habit. He did say he wouldn’t sell himself, but that’s an entirely different bucket of  mudcrabs . Carson rolls his eyes at the gesture, but Rodney doesn’t miss the way he tucks the coin purse around his neck and deep within his robes for safekeeping. 

They wave at Carson and Aiden as the carriage sets off at a steady pace, then head back into the city when it rolls out of view. The Temple of Mara is over by  Mistveil Keep, the home of the Jarl of Riften. It’s a surprisingly majestic building in a city of disrepair, the front courtyard well-tended and the walls clean and free from the moss that clings to every other building in the city. Rodney and John climb the steps to the chapel entrance and enter the double doors into the foyer. There’s a sense of hushed calm inside, the sounds of silence and the whispered words of worshippers their only company. Rodney turns to John intending to speak but a woman appears out of nowhere, fair skinned and shrewd-faced, standing right in front of them and holding out her hands. 

“What can I do for you, my children,” she says, as quiet as a whisper but with infinitely more clarity. 

“We are-” begins Rodney, but he winces at the volume of his voice echoing around the chapel. He tries again. “We are looking for the Avatar of Mara. Aiden Forn told us she might be here.” 

“We are all touched by Mara’s love,” says the woman. “Each and every one of us.” 

“To be more specific,” says John. “We are looking for someone with the mark of Mara on their wrist.” If the woman is surprised, she doesn’t let it show. “Would you know of such a person?” 

“I have Mara’s mark,” she says and lifts the sleeve of her robes up a fraction so they can see. “So tell me, why is this mark important to you and what are you seeking?” 

“It’s kind of a long story,” says John. 

The woman appraises them with her piercing eyes for a moment, then speaks again. “Perhaps some tea?” she says. 

“Tea would be lovely,” says Rodney, and they follow the woman down the aisle of the chapel and behind the altar to a small, unassuming door which leads into modest quarters suited to a pious life. There’s a kettle of water boiling over the fire and the woman ladles some out into a  teapot, adding several spoons of an earthy smelling herb. She bids them to sit down at a table and brings over the tea and some dainty looking cups, like nothing Rodney has ever seen in Skyrim. 

“My name is Elizabeth Weir,” she says, sitting down opposite them. “What do you want with my birthmark?” 

“We are similarly marked by the divines,” says John, and he shows Elizabeth his mark of Talos, nudging Rodney with his foot until he too shows off his wrist. 

“Fascinating,” says Elizabeth, and from her tone you would think her sincere, but Rodney suspects she’s leaning more towards suspicious. 

“Yes, well,” he says. “There are eight of us now; me and John and Teyla and Ronon and Jennifer and Radek and Carson and Aiden, and we-” 

“Aiden Ford?” 

“Yes,” says Rodney. “He’s joined up with us. We’re hoping you will come along too.” 

Elizabeth puts her cup down. “I hope you are not taking advantage of Aiden, he is incredibly vulnerable and I would-” 

Rodney holds up his hands. “No, of course not. We asked, he agreed. There was no coercion or force or bribery or what have you. His only stipulation was that Carson goes with him, and since Carson had already agreed, it was settled in a matter of minutes.” Elizabeth’s eyes are narrow slits, and Rodney can tell he’s losing her. “What we’re doing, what we’re offering, it’s a lot better than sitting in a hovel and wasting away to nothing.” 

“What, exactly, did you offer him?” 

“He is the Avatar of Akatosh,” says John. “We are trying to unite all the Avatars together for a journey up north. A sort of quest.” 

“We asked him if he wanted to go, he said yes,” says Rodney. “He’s on his way to Dawnstar with Carson as we speak.” 

“Why Dawnstar?” asks Elizabeth. “And what are you seeking?” 

“Have you had any strange dreams?” asks John. “A wall of blue water, a circle of symbols, maybe an urge to travel?” 

Elizabeth’s mask of propriety slips and her mouth drops open. “How could you know that?” 

“We’ve all had them,” says Rodney. “All eight of us. It’s what connects us to each other, I think. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it all. Two of us will be in the College of Winterhold by now, scouring the library for clues. Another two are in Solitude, hopefully finding some answers in the collection there. John and I-” Rodney points to John then to himself, “-we were sent here to find the Avatar of Arkay on the rumours of a healer that was blessed by the gods. Carson led us to Aiden, and Aiden led us to you.” 

“That’s a very interesting story but-” 

“I know, I know,” says Rodney. “It’s totally implausible that we would just stumble upon all of you, but that’s how it’s been since the start.” 

“I found Teyla and Ronon in a skirmish with a giant  mudcrab ,” says John. “They were fighting the damn thing right on the Waterfront in the Imperial City, fresh off a boat from  Elsweyr . They had never even seen a  mudcrab before so neither of them knew to attack its soft underbelly. I took them to the local tavern and we all bonded over our victory. After a couple of  drinks I got their story out of them, how they met in Senshal and travelled north by boat, how they’d both had strange dreams and were both marked by the divines.” 

“And you showed them your mark?” 

“Yes. I’d had the same dreams. Felt the same yearning to travel north. We all had this feeling that Skyrim was the place to go, so we travelled on horseback north through Bruma and up into Helgen and made enquiries. They led us to  Whiterun , to Rodney, then west to  Markarth where we found Jennifer and Radek, then finally east to Riften. I think we’ve been guided by something.” 

“You do?” asks Rodney, turning to look at John. “I thought you didn’t think the divines cares about our day to day lives?” 

“Not by the divines, Rodney. By the dreams.” 

Elizabeth regards them for a time over the top of her teacup. Rodney's own teacup lies on the table where he left it, having only taken a sip. It’s an uncomfortable silence, he gets the feeling that they’re being judged and found wanting. 

“Well, in that case,” she says, “I am glad Aiden has agreed to go with you. It might help him a great deal to get out of Riften.” 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” says Rodney. 

“Indeed. I won’t be joining you.” 

Rodney opens his mouth to argue, but John cuts in first. “May we ask why?” he asks. 

“Riften is my great dragon to be slain. Mara guided me here for a purpose, and that purpose is to spread her love to all the people here that are in desperate need of a mother’s comfort. I cannot abandon that calling.” 

“But-” begins Rodney. 

“We understand,” interrupts John. “Thank you for your time.” 

Elizabeth smiles at them both. “Perhaps you would like to be endowed with the Blessing of Mara while you are here?” 

Rodney feels himself flush. “I-uh...I mean, that’s very kind of you, but we’re not-” 

“It’s a little early for that kind of thing,” says John with a wink. 

Elizabeth smiles at them again. “Another time then.” 

It’s a clear dismissal and John pulls Rodney up and drags him out of the temple. 

“She wanted to marry us!” exclaims Rodney as they descend the steps. 

“She did.” 

“Us!” 

“Yup.” 

“But why did she think we were...” 

John stops and looks back at Rodney, and from the expression on his face, Rodney starts to feel like he’s missing something important. “Are we-?” 

“Come on, let’s take the afternoon off. Explore what Riften has to offer.” 

They’re barely two steps out of the temple’s courtyard when they’re accosted by a giant of a man, built like an ox with a head of dark of hair and an angry face. 

“Maven Black-Briar wants a word,” is all he says. He stands as still and unmovable as a mountain in front of them and refuses to let them pass until they agree to his request. John grabs Rodney by the arm as they follow the man and leans in close to whisper. 

“Leave all the talking to me,” he says, and Rodney can only nod. His heart is in his throat from the summons. After all, Aiden did paint a picture of a woman not to be messed with, and he would know. 

The man leads them into one of the grander houses on the waterfront, although grand is a relative term in this place. Inside it’s dry, at least, and regularly cleaned if the lack of dust is anything to go by, but it’s still dark and dingy and depressing. They’re seated in the entryway while the man goes upstairs to fetch Maven Black-Briar, but the second he’s out of sight John jumps up to look around the room. 

“John!” hisses Rodney. “Sit down!” 

“In a minute,” says John, pulling drawers open at random and peering inside. 

“John, I swear to all the  Deadric Princes that if you don’t sit down right this  instant I’ll-” 

“Hush,” says John, pulling a bent wire out of his left glove and twisting it in the keyhole of a small lockbox. With a click, the lid opens and John peers inside.

Footsteps on the stairs, light but steady, spring John into action and he shuts the lockbox and all the drawers softy, sitting down just in time as a woman walks into the room. Her face is hard and her mouth pursed like she’s bitten a raw jazbay grape without any honey. Rodney instantly wants to stand up and run away but he’s rooted to the chair like she’s the Arch-Mage. 

“I’m a busy woman,” says Maven, looking down her nose at them, “so let me get right to the point. One of my employees left the city today, and from what I’ve heard he has taken up employment with the two of you. Is that right?” 

John elbows Rodney in the ribs before he can open his mouth. “That’s right,” he says. 

“I see. Aiden Ford was under a three-year rolling contract, and his leaving the city is a violation of the terms. He now owes me one hundred gold pieces. As his new employers, his debt falls to you.” 

“One hundred gold pieces?!” exclaims Rodney. “That’s-” 

“Impossible,” says John. “We don’t have one hundred gold pieces.” Rodney’s impressed with his straight face because between them they have a heck of a lot more than that. “But...we do have more than enough gemstones to cover the cost.” John brings out a bag from his pocket and clinks it in front of them all. Rodney had no idea he was lugging that all over the place, surely he’d have felt it when they were sharing a horse? 

“Gemstones,” says Maven, and Rodney can see she’s trying to hide her pleasure. “What an...inconvenience.” 

“Of course, because it’s such an inconvenience to have to cash them in, and because there will be a tax on the exchange, I’m willing to give you gemstones to the value of...one hundred and fifty gold.” 

“Two hundred,” says Maven, quickly. 

“One-seventy-five,” says John. 

“Done.” 

John opens up the bag and counts out two garnets and an amethyst. He sets them on the table in front of them and Maven’s a little too slow to school her features into indifference; Rodney catches the greedy glint in her eyes. She’s not so novice as to actually reach out for them in their presence, however. 

“Well, that was a most pleasant transaction,” she says, and for the second time that day, Rodney experiences a woman dismissing him out of hand. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” says John, tucking the rest of the gems back into his pocket. 

“I do think, in the interests of full disclosure, I should warn you that Aiden Ford is a Skooma addict and a layabout.” 

“We’ll just have to  _ whip  _ him into shape,” says John, and Maven’s mouth curls at the corners. 

“Indeed. Good day gentlemen.” 

Rodney pulls John out of the front door before she can offer up any more of her “layabouts” for sale, remembering at the last minute not to slam the door shut behind them. 

“Three-year rolling contract my fair ass,” says Rodney. “No sane man would sign a contract like that. All she’d have to do is catch him in withdrawal and she’d be able to get him to agree to anything. And what’s with you and those gems? Since when do you have a bag of gems? And why did you give some to her? She had no proof-hey!” 

John pulls Rodney into an alleyway between two houses. 

“They’re her gems,” he whispers 

_ “Her _ gems?” 

“I pinched them out of one of the drawers.” 

“You paid her with her own gems?! That’s...that’s...ingenious! Do you think she’ll catch on?” 

“With all the valuables she’s hoarding in her house? Not until we’re long gone.” 

Rodney feels something shift in his head, some cog that was out of alignment shunted into place and starting to turn. “You’re a thief, aren’t you?” 

“No! An opportunity just presented itself and-” Rodney  raises his eyebrow and John sighs out a long, stuttering breath. “Yes, okay, you got me. I’m a thief.” 

“A thief from the Imperial City, no less. Are you in the thieves’ guild there?” 

“Yes.” 

“So that’s why you caught what that woman was trying to do in the bar last night. With the quick hands? You’ve done that kind of thing before.” 

“I have,” admits John, reluctantly. 

“On me?” asks Rodney. 

“What? No, of course not! I would never!” 

“John-” 

“Rodney, I would  _ never. _ I swear to you. You’re my...” 

Rodney feels some hopeful spark in his chest come to light. “Friend?” he asks. 

“Of course.” 

“Well. I’m glad we had this talk.” 

“You are?” 

“Yes,” says Rodney, resolute. “Dinner’s on you.” 

John snorts a laugh then grins back at Rodney. “Fine. It’s on me.” 

*** 

“Do you think there’s another averit...avarer...avatar of Mara?” slurs Rodney over dinner in the Bee and Barb; a large bowl of local seafood chowder and a pitcher of a drink that  Keerava’s mate, Talen- jei , calls the Velvet  LeChance –  _ "A mixture of blackberry, honey, spiced wine, and a touch of nightshade."  _ The food and drink up in  Winterhold is never quite so decadent, and Rodney desperately  wants to pour some more but he can really feel the effects of the first one so it’s probably not a good idea. 

“I don’t know,” says John, tipping his bowl to spoon up the last of his dinner. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure it has to be this one.” 

“What’re we gonna do?” 

“Try again tomorrow.” 

“Oh. What if she still says no?” asks Rodney, and suddenly he has an idea. “Are we gonna knock her out and tie her to  Puddlejumper ?” 

John glares at Rodney through slatted eyes. “How much have you had to drink?” he asks. 

Rodney looks down at his goblet morosely. “Only one.” 

“How are you so drunk? 

“I-I’m not!” 

“Yes, you are. I’m cutting you off. Didn’t you learn how to hold your liquor up in Winterhold?” 

“The Arch-Mage hoarded all the good stuff,” sniffs Rodney, and he drains the last of his drink. “All we got was watered-down ale and the occasional smuggled Sujamma that we had to split twenty ways.” 

“The Arch-Mage did you a disservice then.” John stands and grabs the pitcher and their two goblets. “Come on, let’s take the rest of this to bed.” 

“I thought I was cut off,” moans Rodney as he stands. 

“I think it’s safe enough to finish this off in our room,” says John, and he gestures at Keerava, who waves them off and up the stairs with their bounty. 

Rodney slips into their room behind John and closes the door. He locks it, scuffing the keyhole with the key a few times, then he sits on his side of the bed. John pours them both another drink and hands one to Rodney, dropping down onto the bed with his back against the headboard. Rodney scoots over so he’s sitting right beside him and takes a few sips of his Velvet LeChance. 

“This is the life,” he says. 

“What?” says John. “Tricking wannabe Jarls and getting thrown out of chapels?” 

“A good meal, a good drink, and even better company.” 

“Aw, Rodney, you say the sweetest things.” 

Rodney’s brain catches up with his mouth and he feels his face heat up. “Uh, well, you know...what with us being...friends and all.” 

“Friends, yes.” 

“I’ve never had a friend,” admits Rodney, and what is it with his mouth tonight and letting his thoughts slip out? 

“Never?” asks John, taking a sip from his goblet. 

“No.” 

“What about at the College?” 

“Those aren’t friends, they’re rivals. Magic study is cutthroat. There are those that will be taking advantage of my extended leave and trying to undercut me. I’m the foremost expert in-” 

“Astronomy, Illusion magic and Destruction magic, I remember.” 

Rodney gestures with his goblet. “There is no one else who can keep up, so they try to steal my ideas and research when I travel to Markarth. That’s why I don’t write anything down anymore. Ha! They’ll all be so disappointed when they raid my quarters and find only recipes for common heath potions. No doubt they’re scouring over the pages now looking for hidden meaning.” 

“What about the notes you left with Calcelmo?” asks John. 

“Well,  _ he _ can be trusted not to steal my ideas. Otherwise I wouldn’t have left my pack there. I’m not an idiot.” 

John’s face softens at that. “No, you’re not.” 

Rodney puts his goblet down on his side table and turns his body towards John. “I would trust you,” he says. “With my notes,” he clarifies after a pause, leaning in closer and putting a hand on John’s forearm. 

“I-uh...” says John. He clears his throat and tries again as Rodney’s hand slides down. “I’m honoured. I would trust you. With my...uh...” Rodney watches John's eyes darting around the room for inspiration. “With my sword,” he settles on, finally, and he tilts his face closer to Rodney’s, his breath tickling his chin. 

“Which one?” asks Rodney softly, taking John’s goblet from his hand and leaning over to drop it onto John’s side table. He pulls back, grazing John’s high cheekbone with his lips, and settles back with their noses gently touching. 

“Both of them,” whispers John, and he tilts his head and presses his mouth to Rodney’s, closed-lipped but,  _ oh divines,  _ so good. After the longest moment, John pulls back a little to make eye contact. “Is this okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” says Rodney, and he licks his lips and leans back in, mouth parted just a fraction, to press John’s bottom lip in between his own. They trade soft, sensuous kisses, slow and decadent and careful in their drunkenness, gentle with each other until neither can bear it any longer and John grabs Rodney by the hair, turning things from exploratory to predatory in the blink of an eye. John tilts Rodney back and leans over him, capturing his mouth and claiming it as his own. Rodney falls back down onto the mattress willingly, pulling John on top of him, one of John’s legs between both of his own, neither of them trying to be careful any more. 

Rodney slides his hand up over John's leather cuirass, fingers slipping in-between the laces that hold it together. “It’s going to take a while to get this off,” he says. 

“Better start now, then,” says John, and he pulls back and pushes to his feet, unlacing his armour as he goes. 

Rodney rolls himself up and off the mattress and makes a start on his robes, pulling them up over his head in a jumble of cloth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still struggling with his boots, when John appears in front of him, stark naked, the glorious, golden planes of his body glowing in the candlelight, his arousal evident. Rodney presses a hand to John’s abdomen, feels the rock-hard abs underneath, fingers trailing the unmistakable scars of a hard life etched into the vellum of his skin. John drops to his knees and yanks at Rodney’s boots, all pretence at patience forgotten. He slides his hands under Rodney’s ass and tugs at the waist of his breeches, pulling them down until Rodney’s just as naked as he is, then pushes him back down onto the bed and pounces, pressing Rodney deep into the mattress. As John kisses and nips his way down his neck, Rodney has just enough presence of mind to think:  _ I could get used to this. _


	5. To Dawnstar

Rodney wakes up to the cool, pre-dawn light filtering through the warped glass of the bedroom window. He’s pressed so tight against John’s long, elegant back, face resting between his sharp shoulder blades, one arm draped over his narrow waist. John’s fingers are still entwined with his, and Rodney feels a surge of elation when he remembers just what those dextrous hands did to him last night – there’s something to be said about sleeping with a man who can pick a lock in under fifteen seconds. He feels his lips pulling into a smile as he lifts his head to get a better view. John’s face is slack with sleep, his hair a tangled nest of wayward locks, even more unruly than usual. The point of his ear sticks out of the nest, delicate and exotic. Rodney knows many elves – dark elves, wood elves and high elves alike – but very few halflings; humans with a trace of elven blood. Even in Skyrim, where no law exists to preclude a person from lying with their cousin or their handmaiden or their dead husband’s brother, man and  mer tend not to intermingle in any way that would produce a child, keeping with their own kind for all things carnal, with very few exceptions. It makes Rodney curious as to John’s lineage (but not so much that he’d actually ask him). 

Rodney’s eyes sweep from John’s ears and down his neck, following the track of a silver scar across the curve of John's shoulder blade to where it ends abruptly in the middle of his back amongst a cluster of moles. He traces the outline of the shape of the moles with a fingertip, over and over, just a feather-light touch, branding it into his brain just in case this is something John doesn’t want to repeat. Gods, how Rodney wants this to happen again, and again, and again- 

John stirs sleepily, rolling onto his back. He opens his eyes and looks over at Rodney, his lush lips breaking out into a smile. “Good morning,” he says. 

“Morning,” says Rodney, completely in awe of this beautiful man in his bed. 

“Sleep well?” 

“Dreamt of the wall of water again. But I didn’t wake up in the night.” 

“Good,” says John, leaning up and pressing their lips together. Rodney pulls him in close, fingers slipping into his hair trying to deepen the kiss, but a sharp knock at the door grabs their attention. 

“By the nine,” exclaims John as he gets out of the bed and into the cold air of the room, reaching for his undershirt which is just long enough to cover him to mid-thigh. Whoever is outside the room knocks again, a little louder. “Yes, alright, I’m coming.” 

Rodney pulls the covers up over his collar bone as John opens the door to their intruder, and is surprised to see Mother Elizabeth standing there, her arm raised to knock again, a warm, woollen travel cloak around her shoulders. 

“Gentlemen,” she says, glancing around, eyes looking everywhere but on John’s bare legs. “I apologise for the interruption.” 

“Not at all,” says John, and though he can’t see the polite smile, Rodney can hear it in his voice. “What can we do for you?” 

“I wanted to catch you before you left. We should talk,” says Elizabeth. “I’ll wait downstairs for you both to make yourselves decent.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” says John, and he closes the door softly as Elizabeth turns and heads down the tavern stairs. “Well,” he says, turning to face Rodney. “Looks like someone has changed her mind.” 

“You knew,” says Rodney. “You knew she’d do that. How did you know?” 

“Just a feeling,” says John. “The dreams are getting more and more intense with time. I figured she was close to cracking and we could hang around Riften until she did.” 

Rodney drags himself to the side of the bed, cursing the earliness of the hour and the bitterness of the frost outside, and reaches down for the crystal pendant he got from Calcelmo. Things got rushed and heated last night, but he had the presence of mind to take it off and drop it into his discarded robes for safekeeping. He feels strange without it, is glad to put it back on and tuck it into his undershirt when he dresses. In the time it takes Rodney to put on his underclothes, John’s laced himself back into his armour, boots and all. He helps Rodney back into his outer robe, but Rodney kicks him away when he tries to help him back into his boots. 

“I am not an invalid,” he says, yanking the leather boots up over his feet. 

“I know,” says John, tugging at the bottom of his own cuirass. “I just figured I took them off, so I should put them back on.” 

“Oh. Well, I-I appreciate the gesture.” 

John’s smile is wide and genuine, enough that Rodney braves giving a voice to his tumbling thoughts. “So was last night a beginning or an end?” he asks, a little afraid of the answer but needing to know before he can set his mind to the rest of the day. 

“A beginning?” says John, part statement and part question, the tips of his ears turning red and his shoulders tensing up. “I mean, I hope?” 

“Yes, absolutely,” says Rodney, relieved, and if John’s shoulders relax on his exhale, Rodney doesn’t mention it. “I wasn’t sure what was going on when we first met. I thought perhaps you were winding me up.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

“No,” says Rodney, stepping closer to John. “No, you’re not.” He leans in until he can feel John’s hot breath on his lips. “And I’m glad.” 

The kiss is an expression of affection, but it soon turns hot and Rodney pulls back reluctantly, holding John’s body at arm’s length. “We can’t...Mother Elizabeth...” 

“We should...” John jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “But gods, the things I want to do with you...” 

“Me too. But not right now.” 

John goes over to the door and holds it open. “After you,” he says, and Rodney slips through and down the stairs, his eyes landing on Mother Elizabeth at one of the dining tables close to the fire, a mug of something hot in her hands. They sit down at her table, exchanging pleasantries until Talen-jei comes over to take their breakfast order, a smile on his reptilian face despite the fact that the sun has barely broken above the horizon. They both order eggs on rye with a watered-down, morning ale, and if Elizabeth disapproves of their choice in beverages, she doesn’t let it show. 

“I’ve been awake for hours,” she says when Talen-jei leaves. “Praying and contemplating what you said yesterday. I dreamed last night, visions so clear and bewitching I half thought they were messages from a Deadric Prince. But no, I think they are from Mara herself and I...I think she wants me to go with you.” She says this hesitantly, as though expecting to be ridiculed, and Rodney wonders what kind of life she has lived that a High Priestess would need to brace for such blasphemy. 

“Are you sure?” asks John. “I’m not saying that you won’t ever be able to come back, but I can’t help but feel that this is a one-way journey for us.” 

“I know.” 

“So if you have any doubts, any at all, I can’t in good conscious encourage you to come with us.” 

Elizabeth studies them both over the top of her cup, something Rodney takes to be a habit of hers when she is thinking over what she wants to say. “Isn’t that why you stayed behind? To try to persuade me to come?” 

“It was,” says Rodney, honestly. “But I second what John says. This city seems important to you, you called it your ‘great dragon to be slain’ when we spoke yesterday. We want you to come. No, we need you to come. But...so far it’s been somewhat dangerous and-” 

“I’ve heard rumours of cultists attacking travellers,” interrupts Elizabeth. “Would that have anything to do with your quest?” 

John looks at Rodney, and he nods. “Rodney was attacked on the road to Markarth. And when we stopped in Helgen we only just slipped past some people who knew to look for him. There have been other incidents, times when one or more of us has found ourself in conflict.” 

“Who are these cultists?” asks Elizabeth. “And what do they want from us?” 

Rodney doesn’t miss that she says ‘us’, as though Elizabeth is already committed to the cause, and he supposes she is, was from the very first dream just like the rest of them, even if they’ve all only recently realised it. 

“We don’t know,” says John. “When they attacked in Markarth, it was the first time I got a good look at them. Black robes, long white hair, very pale skin and eyes. They look like living corpses, all bony and hollow.” 

“Like draugr?” asks Elizabeth. 

“No. More like...wisps. Hard fetchers to take down.” John flushes when he realises what he said. “Pardon my language, your holiness.” 

Elizabeth’s laugh is bright and clear. “I have heard worse. And, actually, I’ve said worse in my time.” Both Rodney and John look up at her, mouths and eyes wide in surprise. “I wasn’t always a priest.” 

“No, I suppose not,” says Rodney, but anything else he might say is halted by the arrival of Keerava and Talen-jei with their breakfasts. 

“Thank you both,” says John. “I am hungry this morning.” 

“Mmmm,” says Keerava as she deposits their flagons. “I wonder why that might be.” She winks at Rodney with her third eyelid and hustles back over to the bar to serve her other patrons of the morning. Talen-jei serves their breakfast plates and likewise heads back to the bar. Rodney makes a hasty start on his breakfast, lest Elizabeth starts to ask questions of their nocturnal activities. 

“Well,” she says, after a beat. “Perhaps you might now reconsider the Blessing of Mara.” 

Rodney chokes over his eggs, reaches for his ale to wash it down and cool his reddening face. 

“Oh, you are a tease,” says John, and all three of them burst into laughter. 

*** 

They ride north together, passing through the lush region of The Rift and into the barren, yellow plains of southern Eastmarch before the midday sun. Elizabeth is a decent rider, her young, white mare (Simone) easily keeping pace with John’s destrier. Elizabeth keeps Simone’s mane and tail braided, much to Rodney’s chagrin as he was whacked by the heavy tail before they’d even set off. John insisted it was his own fault for passing by too close to the horse’s rear end, but Rodney doesn't miss how he insisted on checking his shoulder for damage underneath his robes. Rodney made a tentative truce with the horse, feeding her a surreptitious carrot before mounting Puddlejumper and claiming the forward position for himself. 

The southern plains of Eastmarch are a collection of low-lying, volcanic geysers, wide and flat and yellow with sulphur. As such, there is no snow to be had from Mistwatch all the way north to Kynesgrove. The warm, wet air makes for pleasant riding, even if the whole region smells like a cross between rotting eggs and the inside of a sailor’s waterlogged boot. Elizabeth takes the odour in her stride, her face betraying no sign of discomfort, and John endures it with his characteristic stoicism, but Rodney can’t help but moan out loud about how “this smells worse than Ancano’s falsehoods” and "I’ve enjoyed better smells from a draugr” and other colourful things. The others don’t talk much, probably because they are breathing short and shallow and talking out loud encourages deeper inhalation than they’re comfortable with. Rodney has dabbled in potion-making, and so his tolerance for bad smells is probably a little higher than a priest’s, and most of his moaning is for appearance's sake (a little is just to make John smile). 

Rodney points out the towers of the ruins of  Mzulft as they skirt around the eastern edge of the geysers, an as-of-yet unexplored  Dwemer ruin that Rodney’s research leads him to believe has the best chance of housing some kind of  Oculory . The Arch-Mage holds a keen interest in the ruin but has been reluctant to let Rodney loose to break in and explore. Rodney thinks it has something to do with that group of missing apprentices who have yet to turn up on the College’s doorstep with their tails between their legs. (Not literally of course; except for Ilas-Tei, who is an Argonian, the apprentices don’t even have tails.) It’s profoundly unfair that a learned and experienced mage can’t follow the course of his research when a bunch of barely-pubescent teens, who couldn’t light a candle with two wicks and a raging camp fire, sneak off for a week of drunken debauchery and have hangovers of the kind that prevent their timely return. Rodney’s so close to finding out the secrets of the Dwemer. So close. 

One-sided talk of  Mzulft gets them up through  Kynesgrove , where they don’t stop because it’s just a short trip over the hill until they arrive at the stables of  Winterhold , the capital city of  Eastmarch and home of Jarl Ulfric  Stormcloak , the leading face of the  Stormcloak rebellion. It’s some kind of Nord uprising against the over-reaching rule of the Empire, a political mess that Rodney has no horse in because all he wants to do is be left alone to research in peace. It’s one of the reasons he avoids Windhelm; too much danger of finding oneself mixed up in a fight between two opposing peoples. But Kynesgrove doesn’t have accommodations suitable for the High Priestess of Mara, and so Rodney rushes ahead to book two rooms in  Candlehearth Hall and hopes that they are clean. By the time John and Elizabeth catch up, he’s been shown to their rooms by a friendly if a little clipped Nord by the name of Elda. Rodney doesn’t miss her covert glares to the  Dunmer patrons of her establishment, the way she short-serves them on their tankards of ale and ‘mistakenly’ short-changes them too. It’s an affect that Rodney has little time for, people are just as capable of being idiots no matter what their race and a like mind is a blessing whatever form it comes in. Elda keeps her rooms spotless though, and that’s all Rodney needs from an innkeeper. 

Elizabeth insists on paying for dinner when she finds out that Rodney’s paid for the rooms. He wants to argue his point, that being the son of nobles and a lecturer at the College gives him greater collateral than most, but she’s insistent and determined, kicking him under the table when he tries to order the cheapest thing the inn serves and eyeing him over the top of her menu when he asks for water as his beverage. He settles on the roast venison with grilled leeks and a tankard of Nord mead to wash it down. Elizabeth has a surprising appetite, ordering a side of apple cabbage stew and a hunk of bread to go with her pheasant breast and potatoes. She grins at him when their meal is served in the Great Room upstairs. 

“I’ve been fasting for a few days,” she says. “To clear my mind of distractions.” 

“To help you come to a decision?” asks John around a mouthful of boar. 

“Yes, something like that.” 

“You didn’t just decide to head north because we asked you, did you?” asks Rodney. “You were already thinking about it before we arrived.” 

“I was conflicted before I spoke to you,” says Elizabeth. “I wasn’t sure if my dreams were just that – dreams. But when you said you’d had the same visions, the same blue water and symbols...it helped me see things more clearly. The divines have set us on this path...no don’t scoff Rodney, I know you’re not on the best terms with the gods but even you have to admit they have their hands in things sometimes.” 

Rodney stuffs his mouth with meat to avoid replying to that, but John looks at Elizabeth thoughtfully. “Have you always been so devout?” he asks Elizabeth. 

“No. There was a time I brushed the gods off as inconsequential, disinterested beings that no more cared for our lives than a mudcrab would. But I...lost someone. It changed a lot of my priorities.” 

“Someone you loved?” asks John. 

“Someone dear to me, yes. But there is love all around us, between family, friends...lovers.” Elizabeth winks at John. “It’s that love that keeps us going. Even if you have to leave the memory of someone behind, they stay with you.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Here. Always.” 

“So you became a priest?” asks Rodney. “Of Mara?” 

“I realised that the love we feel, as man or mer, the thing that makes us different from all the beasts of Tamriel, must come from somewhere divine. The more I looked, the more everything in my life pointed me to the teachings of Mara. I joined the priesthood and worked my way up.” 

“How did you become the high priestess?” 

“Honestly, I was just in the right place at the right time. I was visiting Riften, it was only supposed to be a short visit, but the high priestess of the time became ill and sadly passed. I was the highest-ranking priest there and I agreed to run the temple until a permanent replacement was named to take over. That was...seven years ago now.” 

Elda comes to clear their plates and Elizabeth orders a round of  Colovian Brandy as a nightcap. She toasts to the journey – “May we find what we seek without bloodshed.” – and bids them goodnight, turning in early to rest up for the morning. Rodney and John stay at their table, drinking in the atmosphere; the rowdy card game in the corner of the room, the crackling fire, and Susanna, the buxom bard, playing the lute in the corner. There was a time that Rodney would have been enthralled by her, but with John at his side he has no eyes for anyone else, and when she comes over to ask him if he wants her to play a song –  _ just for you _ – he gives her a few coins and asks for something safe and utterly without innuendo or lust. John, however, is showing his fangs. 

“Next time I’m picking the tavern,” he hisses as Susanna walks away and starts strumming her lute. “Somewhere with no blonde-haired beauties shoving their assets in your face.” 

“There’s no need to be jealous,” says Rodney, but if he’s honest he’s a little thrilled by John’s reluctance to share. 

“She can keep her gods-forsaken claws out of you,” snaps John. 

“It’s not real,” says Rodney. “Any of it. It’s just for tips.” 

“How do you know?” asks John. 

“There’s a wizard at the College, a pretty young thing, used to be a bard. I mentor her from time to time. She tells me all of her tricks to beguile people out of their coin. Making a person feel like the centre of her attention is just to get money. But I’m no more enamoured with her than I am with that Orc in the corner counting cards.” 

The distraction works a treat. “How do you know she’s counting cards?” asks John. 

“She bets higher or lower the further into the pack they get.” 

“Oh.” 

“That means she remembers what came before and so knows her odds are better or worse.” 

John’s tension dissipates when Susanna moves onto another patron, content in the knowledge that Rodney’s shown her the door, albeit politely. They retire to their room and undress for the night, hearing Elizabeth’s soft snores through the thin walls. John makes an obvious move, sliding his hand up Rodney’s inner thigh when they’re settled in bed, but Rodney pulls it up to his mouth to kiss and then tucks it around his back for safekeeping. 

“I’m not doing that when a literal priest is trying to sleep next door.” 

He can feel John grin against his neck. “But Rodney, we could-” 

“Not happening. But I appreciate your interest, really I do.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s bad enough that she knows what we did last night...” 

“I get it, Rodney.” 

“I really do want to.” 

John kisses the top of Rodney’s head. “Soon,” is all he says, and they fall asleep like that, John wrapped around Rodney, under a pile of blankets to keep out the cold. 

*** 

When they get up, Elizabeth has left a message with Elda that she’s gone to the market stalls early. They eat breakfast and meet her outside the blacksmith where she’s commissioning an iron dagger. Rodney walks up to the blacksmith and drops a handful of coins on his anvil. 

“Better make it steel,” he says. Elizabeth takes the gift with all the grace that her vocation has instilled in her, without false modesty or any sort of pride, and they all browse the other stalls as they wait for the dagger to be finished. When the blacksmith brings it over, it’s a thing of beauty. A plain, sharp edge but with a delicately engraved handle and a strong, sturdy sheath. 

“My assistant wanted to practice her particular skillset on your blade, I hope you don’t mind.” 

“It’s perfect,” says Elizabeth, and she attaches it to the belt over her robes. 

The sun is rising above the walls of the city, covering everything with warm morning light. It’s good weather for riding and they leave the city through the main gates, crossing the bridge over the river to the stables where their horses are stalled. 

“I didn’t think to ask,” says John as he checks Puddlejumper over. “What are your skills should we get in a fight?” 

“I’m afraid I have few skills suited to direct combat,” says Elizabeth. “I’m well skilled in magic armour, however. If we get in a fight I can keep both of you from direct harm. I hesitate to say it, but I’m also skilled in paralysis magic, but it’s of little use because I can’t control who it hits. If I was to cast it in a fight it would affect everyone, including you and I.” 

“You need someone to help you practice spell direction and force,” says Rodney. “It’s a pity you don’t know anyone who teaches magic for a living...” 

“I might take you up on that offer when we get to Dawnstar,” says Elizabeth. 

They mount and set off west, crossing back over the river and around the mountains to the north. Technically there is a pass through the mountains, but the road on the other side seems to drop in and out of existence in the snow, and the risk to the horses' legs is too much to take, especially considering that even going the long way it’s only a little over half a day to get to Dawnstar. John’s on the reins this time and he and Elizabeth take turns to lead, passing by Fort  Dunstad and the Hall of the Vigilant, the home base of the  Vigilants of  Stendarr , devout priests that take their faith in  Stendarr a bit too seriously and seek out any creature that might pray on humans; vampires, werewolves and witches. Occasionally they are caught up in a scandal where one of their number has accidentally maimed or killed an innocent in their pursuit of such monsters, and while their cause is just, their lack of remorse makes them persona non grata to anyone that doesn’t have need of their services. Their hall is tucked into the mountainside, imposing and unfriendly, and so no-one thinks to visit it. Even on maps, it’s only inked onto the paper to provide a landmark to pass, not a destination. It looks a little run down though, even for the  Vigilants , the thatched roof sagging in parts and the steps ragged and threatening to break. Rodney can see some people milling about inside, that’s how close the road passes to it, and he can feel several pairs of eyes following their horses, but thankfully no one comes out to greet them and they pass by without incident. 

The quiet doesn’t last long, however. Half an hour past the  Vigiliant’s hall, the horses start getting a little jittery.  Puddlejumper starts jerking sideways, torn between following John’s directions and making a break for it. Rodney gets a sense of déjà vu, remembering taking an arrow to the leg and ending up immobilised and underwater. 

“John?” he says. 

“Yeah?”

“I think we need to get out of here.”

“I’m on it.”

John reaches for Elizabeth’s reins and kicks the horses into a trot, just in time. The grumbling roar of a bear pierces their ears, somewhere close by. Rodney looks around but doesn’t see anything.

“Where is it?”

Elizabeth points to a spot to her right. “There.”

“I can’t see it.”

But suddenly he can. He was looking for a black bear but when he sees movement on the  ground he realises it’s a snow bear, camouflaged by its white fur until it opens its mouth again to warn them off and snorts a plume of misted breath. It’s close, too close. They must have ridden right into its path. It roars again and the horses speed up, galloping down the hill at great speed to get away. The bear gives chase for a time, but it’s a half-hearted effort at best. Once they get far enough away it slows to a stop and lets out the loudest sound yet, a roar which echoes across the snowy valley, leaving them in no doubt as to their unwelcome status should they lose their minds and decide to ride back up the hill. The horses settle down in increments until they’re ambling along at a rolling trot,  Puddlejumper’s furious heartbeat no longer pulsing between Rodney’s legs, and Rodney feels both himself and John relax as John hands Elizabeth’s reins back over to her.

The road takes them straight north from here, past a giant’s camp and some old ruins and into  Dawnstar , the capital of the Pale. It’s the halfway stop for people travelling between Solitude and  Windhelm , and also a trading  stop for foreign ships destined for Solitude, particularly those of the East Empire company. Rodney’s passed through a couple of times but has never spent more than a night there. There’s little of interest to a mage, just a couple of mines and a small port, hardly anything to attract those of magical persuasion. 

John pulls Puddlejumper to a stop outside the Windpeak Inn. The city is too small for a stable, but there are hitching posts dotted around for travellers to use. Elizabeth dismounts and hitches Simone, and John does the same, holding his hand up to Rodney to help him slide off Puddlejumper’s back. It might only have been a half a day’s ride, but Rodney’s legs are jelly after sitting astride the horse for two days now, and though he is glad to have his feet on solid ground, he feels as though it’s flowing beneath his feet. He stumbles, but John catches him tight in his arms. 

“Sorry,” says Rodney. 

“No worries,” says John with a smile. “Let’s get inside and grab a table. Sit down for a while.” 

“I think the problem is all the sitting I’ve been doing since we first met.” 

“Even so. A nice comfy bench and something to eat is just what the doctor ordered.” 

The inn is quiet enough for them to have a choice of tables but busy enough that they don’t stand out when they walk in. John takes their orders and heads on up to the bar while Elizabeth and Rodney take a seat on the benches. Rodney looks around, but no one from their motley crew is there, and none of the other patrons seem to be anything more than locals having their lunch. 

“You seem on edge, Rodney,” says Elizabeth. “Is something wrong?” 

“I’m just wondering if the others have made it here yet. Carson and Ford were headed straight for Dawnstar on the road we travelled, they should be around somewhere. And I’d be surprised if the others needed all that time in Solitude and Winterhold. If they’re not at the inn, then...” 

“Perhaps they are exploring the city?” 

“It’s not much of a city. One inn, one shop and a handful of houses.” 

“But there is a port.” 

“Yeah, with only one pier.” 

Elizabeth sits back against the wall and regards Rodney with shrewd eyes. “Are you always this negative?” she asks. 

“I’m not so much negative as realistic. Something feels-” 

“Look who I found,” says John, nudging a bemused Aiden Ford with his foot as he carries two flagons of ale in his hands. Ford has another two and Carson, who appears from behind John, has his own. 

“Where did you two come from?” asks Rodney. 

“Our room,” says Aiden, in a voice that hints to a little impatience. 

“You have a room here? At the inn?” 

“Yeah. It’s an inn. Go figure.” 

“Don’t mind Aiden,” says Carson, sitting down cheerfully. “Your holiness,” he says to Elizabeth, who nods her head in greeting. “He’s in a bit of a mood.” 

“Is something wrong?” asks Rodney, but Aiden isn’t looking at him. 

“Aiden?” says Elizabeth. “Are you alright?” 

Aiden looks up, and that’s when Rodney sees the tiredness in his eyes, which are dark ringed and bloodshot. “I’m fine,” he whispers. “I’m just...crashing. I lost my Skooma when I fell off the damn horse in the snow.” 

Carson, who looks positively thrilled at this, tells him not to worry, he’s already passed through the worst of the withdrawal, but Rodney, who has tutored young adults for years now, isn’t so sure. He’s dealt with partying Skooma addicts that were all about the high and functioning Skooma addicts who led a relatively normal life. Neither of those groups of people succeeded in detoxing unless they had the willpower to stop, and Aiden (who is clearly one of the latter) doesn’t look like someone who cares about getting clean. 

“Is there anyone around here that might have what you need?” he asks in hushed tones. 

“Now, Rodney-” begins Carson. 

“I really don’t think that this is the best time for Aiden to be coming off of the Skooma. One, he doesn't want to, and two, we all need to be sharp if those cultists find us again.” 

“He’s right,” says John. “Recovering from addiction is a long process. It requires time and stability and a heck of a lot of effort and willpower. It’s not just a physical thing.” 

“He’s already through the shakes and has started to keep his food down,” says Carson. He turns to Aiden. “You’ve done so well this past couple of days, son. In a couple of weeks you could be free completely. Don’t you want that?” 

“Doc, I-” says Aiden. Everyone else turns to look at him, but Rodney averts his eyes. He doesn’t want to put any pressure on the boy. 

“Speak your mind, Aiden,” says John. 

“I’ve made my peace with my addiction. I’m not sure I have it in me to detox. Maybe one day, but...” 

Elizabeth stands. “In which case, I will head down to the docks and see what I can find. Dockworkers often deal in smuggled Skooma.” 

Everyone turns to her in shock. “But you’re a priest!” says Carson. 

“Yes, I am, but I wasn’t always. It’s my job to ensure the mental and spiritual wellbeing of my flock. Aiden’s wellbeing is important to me, and I might succeed where he failed.” 

“How are you going to persuade the dockworkers to give you the time of day?” asks Rodney. “It’s obvious what you are, after all.” 

“I think I might frame the problem as one of pain management. They don’t need to know that it’s emotional pain rather than physical.” 

“Thank you, mother Elizabeth,” says Aiden. 

“I make no promises. You might end up suffering through this after all. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

Elizabeth leaves, and the four of them nurse their flagons for a time in silence. Rodney can’t believe what Elizabeth is willing to do, but her logic makes a twisted kind of sense. There’s obviously some long, depressing story behind her unorthodox care of Skooma addicts, and surely Aiden isn’t the only one in Riften that she visited regularly. Maybe someone in her past? Whatever the story, no one is as surprised as Aiden when Elizabeth returns barely an hour later and slips him a bag that clinks with the tell-tale sound of glass bottles. 

“There’s enough for a couple of months,” she says. “I’m trusting you to manage your addiction as you always have, Aiden. With immutable care and consideration for your future self.” 

“I promise,” says Aiden, as he slips out from the table and heads back to his and Carson’s rented room. 

“Well,” says Elizabeth, looking at the astonished faces of the men sitting at her table. “Perhaps we should secure lodgings for the night? I have no doubt that with the arrival of the next ship, all the rooms will be rented out shortly.” 

“Of course,” says Rodney, standing. “I’ll take care of it.” 

He feels rather than sees John stand up and follow him to the counter where the Innkeeper is serving an ale to a man with a shaven head and an impressive, blonde moustache. 

“Excuse me, innkeeper?” says Rodney. 

“What can I do for you?” says the innkeeper, but Rodney can tell his heart isn’t in it. 

“We’d like to rent two rooms, please.” 

“Only have the one left. You’re welcome to it, but I have no more space than that.” 

“What do you mean you have no more space?” says Rodney. “Elizabeth can’t bunk with us!” 

The innkeeper glares daggers at him and makes to turn his back. John clears his throat quickly. “What my friend here means to say is that the High Priestess of Mara can’t share a room with two lowly adventurers, especially when they are both men.” 

“High Priestess, eh? Well you boys are welcome to give up your room and sleep on a bench in the tavern if you like. It’ll be warm enough, that’s for sure.” 

Rodney scowls as John hands over the coin for the room. “I guess we’ll-” 

“Excuse me,” says the man on the stool. “I couldn’t help overhearing your plight. I am Jod, housecarl to the Jarl. It would be my honour to give up my room in the longhouse to the High Priestess of Mara.” 

“You’d really do that?” says Rodney, instantly suspicious but a little relieved. 

“Aye, I would. It’s not like I sleep overmuch anyway.” 

“That’s awfully kind of you, Jod,” says John. “We’d compensate you for the trouble.” 

“There’s no need to-” 

“Yes, there is. We’d be entrusting her safety into your care after all.” 

Rodney can feel some unspoken conversation happening between John and Jod, but he’s damned if he can figure it out. Jod breaks eye contact first and nods his head. “Aye, that you would,” is all he says, and he gets up and makes his way over to the table to talk to Elizabeth. 

“What just happened?” asks Rodney. 

“I just got Elizabeth a bodyguard for the night. I don’t like the idea of leaving her vulnerable and alone in another building.” 

“How do you know you can trust him?” 

“He’s a veteran of the Great War.” 

“Like you?” 

“Like me.” 

John doesn’t elaborate, but Rodney trusts his judgement so he doesn’t argue. If he says Jod is trustworthy then he's trustworthy, and that’s all there is to it. For her part, Elizabeth looks pleased with the arrangements, waving regally at them as she follows Jod out of the inn and presumably to the longhouse. Rodney and John head back to the table. 

“She’s just gone to freshen up, then she’ll join us for dinner,” says Carson, his eyes peering over Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney turns to look and sees Aiden coming out of their room, looking a heck of a lot better than he did a few minutes ago, with colour in his cheeks and a bounce in his step. He sits down next to Carson and grins. 

“So, what’s on the menu?”


	6. The Sanctuary

Jen and Ronon arrive early morning, with enough fanfare that it wakes everyone in the inn (and possibly the entire settlement). 

_ “I’m telling you, Ronon, he had a look about him.” _

_ “What kind of a look?” _

_ “The murderous kind. I would know. I’ve seen that look many a time.” _

Rodney opens his eyes to see John looking at him by the light of one candle stump, brow raised in surprise. “They’re here,” he says, and they both rush to get up and dressed and head out into the main hall of the inn to see Jen and Ronon at the bar ordering breakfast and fruit juice. Jen looks up at the sound of the bedroom door closing and sees them standing there, the biggest grin spreading across her face. She whacks Ronon with the back of her hand and points at them, leaving him to grapple with their drinks as she comes over to wrap her arms around Rodney. 

“Rodney! John! I’m so glad you’re both alright!” 

Rodney pats her on the back with the one hand that isn’t trapped against his side. “It’s good to see you too, Jen,” he says, sincerely. 

John rearranges his face into something congenial, but Rodney doesn’t miss the grimace that comes first. As  Jen turns and heads over to the table that Ronon commandeered he leans into John’s space and whispers  _ behave! _

“Yessir,” says John sarcastically, but from then on he’s on his best behaviour, including Jen in his small talk with Ronon as they all wait for breakfast to arrive. 

“You must have set off damn early to get here for breakfast time,” he says. “Winterhold is half a day away.” 

“Ugh, it’s a long story,” says  Jen. “The short version is that someone died at the College and we were asked to leave in the middle of the night. There was no room at the inn in  Winterhold so we decided to travel overnight and catch up with whoever was here.” 

John gets a  _ look _ on his face that Rodney can’t decipher, as though something’s clicked in his mind, or...Rodney wants to ask but he suspects that whatever it is it's best left until they’re alone. “So how did you get on in the Arcanaeum?” he asks. “Did you find anything relating to our quest?” 

“A few texts, a journal and a couple of maps,” says Ronon. “Urag gro-Shub was very helpful. Once we gave him the letter.” 

“He and I collaborate on papers from time to time,” says Rodney. “I hold him in high regard.” 

“And he you,” says Jen. “He said to tell you that he’s sourced some journals with reference to a working Oculory and that he’s keeping them aside for when you get back. I got the impression he was hoping that would be sooner rather than later.” 

Rodney feels a pang of guilt for not informing Urag of his plans, but it’s for the best. The less that grumpy Orc knows, the less culpable he’ll be when the Arch-Mage finds out. 

“He doesn’t like you  _ that _ much,” says Ronon. “He wouldn’t lend us the books. We had to copy them out word for word onto scrolls.” 

“That’s why we’re late,” says  Jen . “I thought we would get here before the two of you.” 

“It didn’t take long to convince the healer to come with us,” says Rodney. 

Ronon opens his mouth to speak, but the innkeeper interrupts him, bringing over four breakfasts in his  two arms and placing them down in front of each of them. 

“Thank you,  Thoring ,” says  Jen , and she beams up at the sullen Nord, eliciting a genuine smile. 

“You’re, uh, you’re welcome,” says  Thoring , and as he heads back to the bar Rodney catches him turning around to look at  Jen , a look of uncertain interest on his face. 

“Poor man,” says  Jen . 

“What do you mean?” asks Rodney. 

“He’s clearly depressed.” 

Rodney turns around again to look at Thoring. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I thought he was just an ass.” 

“He’s so unhappy that he has a raincloud over his head,” says  Jen . “I’m surprised you can’t see it.” 

Rodney feels a little bad for being so abrupt with the man the night before. He vows to be more mindful from now on, knowing how difficult it is to get out of a depressive state and how every little problem can multiply to become overwhelming. It must be difficult to run an inn in that frame of mind. 

“So,” says Ronon, grabbing everyone’s attention. “The healer of Arkay’s onboard and we have the texts from the Arcanaeum. We just need to find the avatars of Mara and Akatosh.” 

“Actually,” says John as he cuts into his roast meat. “We had some success on that front.” 

“Oh?” 

“They were both in Riften. A young man by the name of Aiden is the avatar of Akatosh. He is a patient of Carson’s. Uh, Carson’s the healer of Arkay.” 

“Aiden agreed to come when Carson did,” says Rodney. 

“And Mara?” asks  Jen . 

“Elizabeth, the high priestess of Mara,” says John. “She was Aiden’s spiritual mentor. She’s currently a guest in the Jarl’s longhouse.” 

“We have everyone, then?” 

“It looks that way,” says Rodney around a mouthful of bread and butter. As he swallows, the door to the inn opens and an Orc in hooded robes comes in and heads up to the bar, nodding at Rodney when she catches him looking. She sits on a stool and has a whispered conversation with Thoring, ending in a flagon of ale and a subtle head tilt that Rodney wouldn’t have caught if he wasn’t looking out for trouble. 

“I think we should go,” he whispers to John, dropping his cutlery on the table. 

“What’s wrong?” asks John. 

“That Orc at the bar? I saw her in Windhelm. I think she followed us here.” 

John looks over at the Orc on the pretext of checking out the menu above the bar. “She could be the woman that was playing cards, but then again maybe not. We had a lot to drink that night.” 

Before Rodney can reply, the Orc in question comes over to the table. “Greetings, friends. May I join you?” Ronon kicks out a stool and gestures for the Orc to sit. She does so, dropping her flagon onto the table, and in the light of the fire her facial tattoos are striking. “Yag gra-Gortwog, at your service,” she says. 

“How do you do?” says  Jen . “I’m  Jen , this is-” 

“What can we do for you,” interrupts John, in a way that passes as hurried rather than rude. If Rodney tried to do that, Yag would have stormed off, offended, or pulled out a blade. 

“I’m looking for a worthy group in need of some muscle. You look like the adventuring types.” 

Rodney can’t help himself. “You were in Windhelm, weren’t you,” he blurts out. “In Candlehearth Hall?” 

“I was.” 

“Did you follow us here?” 

“No. I had business in Windhelm, but I was already heading this way. If your group has no need of assistance, I’ll head on down to the docs to see if they need a labourer there. The dockmaster in Windhelm made it clear that they didn’t want a ‘greenskin’ working for them.” 

Rodney’s not surprised to hear that the intolerance of the innkeeper in Windhelm spreads to the rest of the population, but he is surprised that anyone would turn down such a strong looking Orc, even if they had reservations about race. She looks like she could bench-press a rowing boat full of Nord children. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says  Jen. “The  Nords can be so stubbornly narrow-minded.” 

“We’re not the entire group,” says John. “We have five more people. Thank you for your offer, but there is no room for anyone else.” 

“That’s fine,” says Yag. “It was worth a try, at any rate.” 

John gestures to a man sitting in the corner of the inn. “You could try him, though. Last night I overheard him saying to someone that he was heading an expedition to a Dwemer Ruin. There’s always need for some heavy lifting in one of those. All that metal.” 

“Thank you, friend,” says Yag, looking pleased to have a lead. She gets up and heads over, and from the look of it her opening pitch is very successful. The man, an Imperial in an impressive set of steel armour, motions her to sit with him, and Rodney can hear the words ‘just what I’ve been looking for’ and ‘great reward’ and ‘Umana, get over here, I’ve found us an able-bodied helper!’. The Redguard woman that joins them is stony-faced, but she doesn’t seem to have a word against their newest member. 

“Well,” says Rodney. “Crisis averted.” 

John gives him an indulgent look that makes his face heat up. He busies himself with his breakfast to avoid making eye contact with anyone else. 

“Is that your healer? Carson?” asks  Jen , nodding over to an open door to one of the rooms, where Aiden is stretching his arms over his head and as he walks through. 

“That’s Aiden Ford,” says John. “Avatar of Akatosh. He’s an archer.” 

Rodney takes his cues from John and doesn’t mention the  Skooma thing. He has no idea how the rest of the group will react if they find out, and it’s Aiden’s business who he tells. He seems positively full of beans this morning as he comes over to the table and introduces himself to Ronon and  Jen, showing off his mark and looking at theirs in turn. Carson joins them shortly after that, and Elizabeth comes into the inn not long after they’ve all finished eating, having already had breakfast at the longhouse with the Jarl. She looks like she’s had a good night’s sleep. Rodney wishes he could say the same, but John’s wandering hands and mouth kept him up late, and that’s after they spent most of the evening playing cards and losing coin to the locals. 

“So what happens now?” asks Aiden. “Do we just wait here for the last two to arrive? Or do we make a start on the texts from the College?” 

“We should wait,” says Ronon. “You never know what Teyla and Radek will have found in Solitude.” 

“I wish there was a way to know how long they’ll be,” says  Jen . “I’m not all that great at sitting around doing nothing.” 

“You could always play your lute,” says Rodney. “Azura knows this place could use a nice tune.” 

Jen points to a woman setting up on a stool over by the bar. “This place already has a bard.” 

“Shor’s blood, not her again,” says Rodney. John is too polite to let his feelings show, but both Carson and Aiden shake their heads. 

“Good morning,” says the woman. “The  Windpeak Inn features the finest bard in all of Dawnstar. Me, Karita.” She picks up her lute, and twangs each string in turn. “This one’s a favourite of mine. A legend we all know and love...” 

What follows is an exercise in endurance. Karita’s only a bard in the loosest sense of the word. To say her voice is untrained and off-key would be a compliment. She sounds like a fox with internal bleeding. Her rendition of The Dragonborn Comes is harsh enough to make any dragon flee Skyrim to escape. It’s all Rodney can do to sit quietly as the entire inn watches the performance. When it’s over there’s a smattering of applause, the loudest from Karita’s father, Thoring, with a few whistles from the crowds that started their drinking early. 

“Well,” says  Jen . “That was...something.” 

“Nepotism at its finest,” smirks Rodney, eliciting a laugh from the whole table, even one from Elizabeth. Everybody’s smiles are wiped off their faces when Karita comes over, however. 

“You look like an interesting group,” she says. Before anyone can answer she turns to  Jen . “I can’t help but notice your lute. How would you feel about doing a duet?” 

“I’m afraid my throat is a little under the weather,” croaks  Jen , so well that even Rodney’s almost convinced that she’s ill. “Another time, perhaps.” 

“Just let me know when you’re feeling up to it,” says Karita with a smile, and she heads back over to the bar to pick up her own lute. Thankfully she’s content to play it for a while without adding in her voice. 

Having avoided a second crisis, Rodney’s just starting to relax when a town guard bursts into the inn and shouts that Dawnstar is under attack. Quick as a flash, all the men and women in the room jump up and stream out of the front door to defend the settlement, armed and dangerous. Everyone at the table looks to Rodney for instruction and he falters. 

“I-I don’t know what to do here,” he says. “Should we help?” 

“We should,” says Elizabeth. “We must.” 

And  so the seven of them arm themselves and follow the townspeople out into the street to where a fight has broken out. Familiar looking robed cultists are engaged in combat with the town guards and a number of able-bodied citizens, the sounds of the clash of steel against steel and the whistle of arrows as they fly through the air seeking a target. For a moment Rodney just stands there, transfixed, watching the violence unfold, but then he spots a young child hiding behind a rock, a duelling pair slowly backing his way. Rodney rushes over to the child and picks him up, throwing him over his shoulder as he dodges around people and heads back to the inn. He drops the boy onto the steps and tells him to head inside quickly as Karita opens the door a crack to let him squeeze through. Rodney turns back to the fighting, is almost slain on the spot by a cultist with an axe, but the man twists to the side at the last moment and throws his hood back. 

“I’ve found him!” he roars over the din, and Rodney, startled by the man’s blindingly white skin and hair, doesn’t realise who that ‘him’ is until John pushes his way between them and cuts the man down with his sword. 

“Rodney!” says John, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. “They’re here for us, for you. We have to-” 

A bright flash of light startles them all, cultists and citizens alike, and on the edge of the city appears a tall, thin figure in billowing robes, their long, red hair flowing around them though there is no wind. 

“Shit,” says John and he yanks Rodney’s arm and drags him in between two buildings and around the back of the inn. He pushes Rodney down behind some barrels of ale and tells him to lie low. 

“But I can help!” replies Rodney, irked at being treated like some damsel in distress. 

“No,” says John. “They are after you, have been since Markarth. Stay here, keep quiet and low and wait for me to return, okay?” 

“John-” 

John leans down and presses a short, sharp kiss to Rodney’s mouth. “Promise me,” he says. 

“Okay, I-I promise.” 

John vanishes back down the alleyway and into the fray. Rodney can still hear the fighting, people screaming and shouting, blade against blade and the crackle of displaced air that follows a well-aimed spell. He can’t tell from sound alone who’s winning, hopes desperately that it’s the good guys and not the cultists. It’s some time before anyone comes around the back of the inn to where he’s hiding, and from the footsteps he can tell that it’s not John. A cultist breaks around the corner and surveys the Inn’s back yard. Rodney ducks back down before he’s spotted, crouches low to the ground and hopes that the man doesn't think to look behind these barrels. He’s never been in a fight, not a real one at least. He has no idea if he even has a chance against one of these terrifying people. Footsteps shuffle around and pass by the barrels until Rodney can see the back of the man’s robes. If he turns around then Rodney will be spotted instantly. The man steps back once, twice, and a blood-curdling yell catches his attention from off to his side. Jen rushes into view, stabbing the man first with one dagger, then a second, repeating over and over until the man lies dead in a pool of blood. Rodney stands and heads over to her, hears more footsteps behind as John comes back down the alleyway and to a stop next to the body. 

“Nice work,” he tells  Jen . 

“Thanks.” 

John turns to Rodney. “We’ve pushed them back out of the town. For now. It’s time for us to move on.” 

Rodney lets John lead him back out in front of the inn where his team is waiting, including a bloodied Teyla and an immobile Radek. 

“Oh my god,” says Rodney, falling to his knees beside Radek. “What happened?” 

“He was hit with a paralysing arrow, just as you were,” says Teyla, wiping her hands on some snow. “He will be well.” 

“It’s a good thing you two arrived when you did,” says John. “We were overrun.” 

“We need to move on from here,” says Elizabeth, eying the people around them as they tend to their wounded. “We’re only endangering the townsfolk. This is not their fight.” 

The Jarl’s housecarl, Jod, approaches them with his hand on his axe. “Lady Elizabeth,” he says, a frown on his face. 

“Jod,” says Elizabeth. “What can I do for you?” 

“The Jarl has asked that you leave as soon as possible.” 

Elizabeth nods. “We are in agreement.” 

“It’s nothing personal, m’lady. But we’re a peaceful town, we don’t want any more trouble here. We have enough of our own.” 

“Do not worry,” says Teyla. “We are just leaving.” 

Jod nods at Teyla then bows at Elizabeth and turns on his heel back to the Longhouse. 

“Where can we go?” asks Carson. “If we go to another city we’ll only be inviting the violence to follow.” 

“What we need is safe harbour,” says Ronon. “Somewhere to tend to Radek and collate all our findings. 

“Um...” says  Jen , and everyone turns to look at her. “I. ..uh ...might know of a place. It’s close by but safe.” 

*** 

Close turns out to be an understatement. Jen leads everyone east along the shore from  Dawnstar on horseback, around the other side of the hill that overlooks the town. There's nothing there but the sea on one side and a cliff face on the other, a long burned-out campfire on the verge by the beach. 

“This is your plan?” says Aiden. “Camping out on the shore? We can still see the ships in the dock from here!” 

“Patience,” says  Jen,  and she dismounts and heads over to the cliff face with the air of a woman in control. Out of nowhere, a shimmering door appears in the rock, a door with the visage of a skull with a bloody handprint. It has a menacing aura, like that of a necromancer, and Rodney really doesn’t want to see what’s behind it. 

“Wait,” he says as he slides off Puddlejumper’s back. “Is this safe?” 

“I’ve never been here before,” says  Jen . “But-” 

A voice echoes out from the door, a loud, menacing whisper. 

_ "What is life's greatest illusion?" _

Jen leans in close to the door and says: “Innocence, my brother.” 

Rodney can barely believe his eyes when the door says  _ Welcome Home _ and swings open to let them enter. When Jen turns  around she starts at the looks on all their faces, but Ronon, who’s carrying Radek, steps around her and heads on through like there’s no time to lose. Rodney supposes that’s true, so he heads inside too, and the rest soon follow. A cramped and narrow passageway leads to a large, open-plan chamber. Ronon heads down the steps and gently places Radek onto a ragged looking wooden table, straightening out his limbs and placing a hand on his forehead. 

“It will be alright,” Ronon tells Radek. 

Rodney steps forward. “He’s telling the truth, Radek,” he says. “This happened to me too, I was shot with a poison arrow. You’ll be fine by morning, so just let yourself sleep. I’ll keep watch.” 

“We all will,” says John as he steps off the stairs and comes over. He puts a hand on Rodney’s shoulder and turns him around into an embrace. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” says Rodney. “Really, I-” 

A commotion interrupts them and they both turn to see Aiden slamming an old, tattered book down on a table in the corner. 

“Do you know what this is?” he says to  Jen . “It’s a book of the Five Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood. This is a Dark Brotherhood sanctuary, isn’t it?” 

Jen ’s cheeks turn red and she stammers. “Well, y-yes, but-” 

“So is all that an act?” asks Aiden. “All that girlish charm?” 

“No, of course not, I-” 

“Just kill people for money?” 

“Look, it’s not like that. The Brotherhood is my family. They took me in when no one else would. Sure, I kill people sometimes, but it’s not like I don’t have a moral code.” 

“What’s to say you won’t just kill us in our sleep?” snaps Aiden. 

“I would never!” 

“We only have your word-” 

“Enough!” says Elizabeth. She’s not shouting, her voice is barely more than temperate, but her tone is strong and commanding and it’s enough to get everyone to stop and take a breath. “We’ve all made it this far. I think it’s safe to say that our focus, our priority, is finding the artefact and figuring out the dreams. Everything else is secondary to that...mission.” 

Aiden brushes the book off the table and onto the floor. “We can’t stay in an-” 

“Yes we can,” says Ronon. “It’s secure and sheltered and hidden. Until we have a plan of action, we’re not leaving.” 

“Well, I’m not staying here.” 

“Do you really wish to go it alone?” asks Teyla. 

Aiden crosses his arms. “I don’t know you, ma’am, and I don’t-” 

“Don’t be hasty, lad,” says Carson. “This place is old, it hasnae been used in an age or more. No one will think to look for us here because no one will remember this place exists. Out there? Alone? That’s just asking for trouble.” 

Aiden drops his eyes to the floor. “It’s not right, it’s not-” 

“What’s the real problem?” asks Elizabeth. “It’s more than a vague distrust of the Brotherhood, isn’t it?” 

“Assassins killed my parents,” says Aiden. 

“I’m sorry,” says  Jen , softly. 

Aiden sneers. “Are you?” 

“Of course I am.” 

“But you’re one of them! What do you care about some poor-” 

“Of course I care! I don’t kill for fun. I kill because someone enters a binding blood contract with the Night Mother, and she chooses me to carry it out. I’m not a monster.” 

“That’s debatable.” 

Jen takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, her shoulders slumping with the effort. “Look, you can trust me. I’m not going to kill you, any of you.” 

“And if the cultists take out a contract with the Night Mother?” asks Elizabeth, not unkindly. 

“Then it’ll have to be taken out on me too,” says Jen. 

“I think that’s settled then. Aiden?” 

“Fine. I...fine.” 

Aiden slumps down in front of the hearth and sets to making a fire. Rodney could go over and help, spark up a flame with barely a thought, but it’s probably good for the man to have something to occupy his thoughts for a time so he doesn’t. Instead, he heads back over to Radek where Teyla is rolling up a makeshift pillow for his head. 

“Did you find anything in Solitude?” he asks her as she gently lifts up Radek's head and slides the pillow underneath. 

“Very little about the location of the artefact,” she says, straightening out Radek’s blankets. “But much about the cultists. It can wait until tomorrow when we’ve all rested and Radek has control over his body again.” 

*** 

John presses extra close when they all find a corner to sleep in, burrowing against Rodney under the blanket and wrapping him up in his arms. The fifth time John kisses his nose, Rodney gets a little impatient and pulls back. 

“You knew, didn’t you,” he whispers. 

“Knew what?” asks John. 

“That Jen was an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood.” 

“Mmmm.” 

John’s trying to be noncommittal but Rodney’s got his number. “Don’t ‘mmmm’ me. How long have you known?” 

“Since Markarth.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Well, I suspected in Markarth when she made such a scene. But I knew when she came to Dawnstar and mentioned another murder. Two murders in less than a week and she’s the common denominator.” 

“I guess she is.” 

John kisses his nose again. “Sleep. There’s a lot to cover in the morning.” 

*** 

When they wake up, Aiden’s gone. Rodney would like to say he’s surprised, but that would be a lie. Perhaps they should have had someone else on watch with him to talk to him when he packed up his things, but would it have made a difference? It’s not like they would have kept him here against his will, would they? He made it clear that he wasn’t going to be talked out of it. In hindsight, Rodney’s really only surprised Aiden waited until they were all asleep before leaving. 

Everyone looks a little worse for wear after having rested, the fight yesterday seems to have taken its toll and Aiden’s absence has left them weary: when Radek wakes he’s fully mobile and unsurprisingly grumpy; Teyla’s favouring her left arm and sporting bruising from shoulder to elbow; Jen’s little finger is swollen and black from a fracture that she says she got saving Rodney from the cultist in the back alley; Carson has a scratch to his face and he proudly tells the story of its origin to anyone who will listen; and if Elizabeth has any injuries, no one is any the wiser. Ronon’s remarkably injury-free which Rodney ascribes to the man being quick and light on his feet and built like a giant. Rodney has already catalogued John’s injuries by candlelight during the night, traced the outside of each and every bruise and gash and used his limited knowledge of healing magic to alleviate the pain while Carson spent his valuable and finite time with the worst of the injuries and Radek’s paralytic state. 

Despite her obvious discomfort, Teyla gathers together all the food that everyone has been hoarding in their packs while Jen digs out a dusty bag of oats from a cupboard and stews a bland and stale porridge using an old kettle over the embers of the fire. Between them they make everyone a hearty breakfast, enough to bolster everyone’s resolve and warm them up. Things are quiet and contemplative, everyone keeping to themselves until Elizabeth calls everyone to order and asks Rodney and John to gather some chairs from the back rooms while Ronon and Carson push together the tables to make a larger one in the centre of the main hall. Once seated, everyone seems to defer to Elizabeth’s natural leadership and she takes charge with the ease of a woman who has been organising others her whole life. 

“I think to start with we should make official introductions,” she says, looking them all in the eye one by one. “My name is Elizabeth Weir. I am the high priest of the temple of Mara in Riften and the avatar of Mara.” 

One by one they introduce themselves going clockwise around the table, pausing for a moment over the empty chair that Rodney brought to the table for Aiden should he choose to come back. Rodney doesn’t know what it will mean that they don’t have the Avatar of  Akatosh when they find the artefact, if it will preclude its...what, activation? There are so many unknowns. He hopes that whatever news Teyla and Radek, and Ronon and  Jen have brought back will be useful. When Elizabeth directs Teyla and Radek to speak, Teyla pulls out a folded piece of vellum from inside her pocket. 

“They are called the Kindred,” she says. “And they have been around for a very long time.  Elisif had not heard of them, but her Court Wizard, Sybille Stentor, is well versed in ancient history and she came to us in the middle of the night with old tomes and forgotten letters. There was a time, back in the first era, when the Kindred were well known and feared in much the same way as vampires are today. The letters depicted stories of missing people who would turn up days later, aged as though they had been gone for decades. It’s as though the years of their lives were syphoned from their bodies, and every time it was attributed to the Kindred.” 

“I have never heard of such a thing,” says Elizabeth. 

“I have,” says Carson, the thumbs of his clasped hands fidgeting and belaying his discomfort. “Before I settled in Riften I used to travel far and wide to heal the sick. I heard a rumour in an inn of a lass missing for a week and returned in a state so frail and lined that she looked like an old woman. I visited the family, a fisherwoman and her wife living on the shores of Lake Ilinalta. Their daughter was weak and bedbound and in a state I’d never seen before, nor have I seen it since. Her hair was grey, her skin wrinkled and paper-thin, but the most interesting thing about her was a mark on her chest, just above the heart. A ring of miniature punctures.” 

“Was there anything you could do?” asks  Jen . 

“No, lass. She took her last breath shortly after I arrived. Even if she lived, you cannae reverse that kind of trauma.” 

“Is it magical in nature?” asks Rodney. “Some kind of archaic, forgotten necromancy perhaps?” 

“I wouldn’t have been able to determine that without a scholar present,” admits Carson. “But it looked more...mechanical in nature than anything else.” 

“What else can you tell us?” Elizabeth asks Teyla and Radek. 

“The Kindred have all the markings of a Dragon cult,” says Radek. A central figure called the Keeper was worshipped by all the members, and they sought to indoctrinate others into their fold. They vanished without warning some thousands of years ago and no one knows where they went. Seemingly the Keeper was long-lived, some say eternal, which implies that they were of elven blood, not human. Most  mer live a few hundred years at most but there are longer-lived examples.  Iachesis , the head of the  Psijic Order, lived longer than three millennia. With enough power, the Keeper might have been able to do something similar.” 

“So,” says Ronon. “Do we think someone has revived a Necromantic cult from a bygone era?” 

“I think the bigger question is what does this have to do with our dreams,” says John. “They are after us, so we must have something they want. And what is it about Rodney, in particular, that they’re looking for?” 

All eyes turn to Rodney, and he sinks a little lower in his seat under the scrutiny. 

“I...uh...I mean, I make no secret of that fact that I’m the preeminent expert on the machinations of the heavens,” he says. 

“ So they’re after your smarts?” asks  Jen . 

“Maybe.” 

“Well,” says Elizabeth. ““In summary, we’ve all had the same dream that has led us here, to the north of Skyrim; there’s a cult of worshippers on our tail that want something we have, and somehow this all involves the nine divines. The question now is, where do we go from here?” 

Jen reaches for her pack and drops it on the table. “Ronon and I might have a few ideas about that,” she says, pulling out several bound vellum scrolls. She hands one to each person at the table until she has only two left. She drops one in the middle of the table. “I. ..uh ...there was one each including Aiden.” 

“What are we looking at?” asks Elizabeth, unrolling her scroll. 

“Maps,” says Ronon. 

Jen smooths her scroll out on the table’s surface. “With  Urag’s help, we found a few obscure references to a glowing blue ring in the  Arcanaeum . Some of them we had to ask  Urag to translate, but others were in the common tongue. One of the scrolls mentioned an “Astria Porta” which translates as a gate to the stars. It turns out that we’re not the first people to have dreams about the artefact. The College has reports of two others that have disclosed dreams of this Astria Porta. The first was a report by a healer back in the first era. She assumed her patient to be mad and they were medicated with sedatives and an infusion of blisterwort and cannis root to keep them docile. The other was in the second era; one of the mages involved in the building of the College was plagued by dreams of a wall of water. They left on a journey to find it and weren’t heard of again until their body turned up hundreds of years later, preserved in the ice. It was aged and infirm, and at the time people assumed they had died of old age. But with what Teyla and Radek found in Solitude, I can’t help but think...” 

“That they were subjected to the same kind of affliction as the lass I examined,” says Carson. 

“The College had some pages on the Kindred,” says Ronon. “But we don’t have anything new to report, just that once they were many and now they are forgotten.” 

“What about the location of the artefact?” asks John. “Without that, we’re back to square one.” 

“Actually, we did find a journal entry with some direction,” says  Jen . 

Ronon takes a folded piece of vellum out of his pocket. “ Urag translated it for us, I think it loses something in translation, but he said it was as accurate as he could make it.” He peers at the page in front of him.  _ “I have had such dreams, dreams of a place where water flows sideways and you can swim to the stars, in the shadow of Yngvild, through the ice path, there I hope to find the way to Atlantis.”  _

“What’s Atlantis?” asks Carson, but Rodney already knows. He and John both look at each other and share a frown. 

“I think I know,” says John, his eyes still on Rodney. He turns to face the others. “In my dreams I’ve seen a place, some kind of great city with spires as tall as mountains.” 

“Where is it?” asks  Jen . 

“It’s not on Tamriel,” says John. “It’s...uh...in between the stars.” 

“A city in the heavens?” says Elizabeth, her eyebrows raised. 

“It’s flying.” 

To Rodney’s surprise, no one seems overly shocked by this revelation. 

“Does it...” begins Teyla. She licks her lips and continues. “Does it have great stained-glass windows?” 

“Yes,” says John. 

“I have seen such windows in my recent dreams. I did not think it significant.” 

“I think it’s safe to say that all details are significant,” says Elizabeth. “What else have we all not disclosed?” 

“Doors that open on their own,” says Carson. 

“Small cupboards that transport you from one place to another in the blink of an eye,” adds Radek. 

“Magical wall lights that have no flame,” says Ronon. 

Rodney holds up his hands. “Wait a minute, let’s all pretend we’re remotely inclined to cognitive acumen for a moment, hmm?” 

“Rodney-” begins Elizabeth, but Rodney doesn’t pause for breath. 

“Just because something is hard to understand, doesn’t make it magical in nature. To those of the first era, things like a water wheel would seem magical, but it is, in fact, pure engineering and mastery of the physical properties of Tamriel. Water flows, therefore a half-submerged wheel will turn. Just because we don’t know how a thing works, it doesn’t mean it’s mystical.” 

“Whether it is magic or only seems like magic, it’s still far beyond our ken,” says Carson. “I mean, suppose we actually find the artefact and it takes us to this city, what will we do there? How do we know we’ll be able to master it’s...physical properties.” 

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way,” says Rodney. “With scientific rigour and determination.”


	7. The Astria Porta

“Can we get back to the location of the artefact?” asks Elizabeth. “I’d like to know if we even have a chance to get to it before we worry about what’s on the other side.” 

Jen taps the scroll in front of her. “In front of you all is a tracing of the hand-drawn map from the journal we found. It shows the coast from  Dawnstar in the west to  Winterhold in the east.” 

Rodney looks down at the map she handed him, rough and only vaguely resembling the northern-most coastline of Skyrim. Several landmarks are written down in an old Nordic: the Tower stone, a massive stone pillar that’s supposedly blessed by the gods; Frostflow lighthouse southeast of Dawnstar; Ysgramor’s Tomb on an island near Winterhold. One landmark, in particular, catches his eye. 

“Ronon, read out the journal entry again if you would?” asks Rodney. 

Ronon looks back down at his vellum. “I have had such dreams, dreams of a place where water flows sideways and you can swim to the stars, in the shadow of Yngvild, through the ice path, there I hope to find the way to Atlantis.” 

“Yngvild is fabled to be the resting place of the Valkyries of old,” says Radek. “But it’s not on this map.” 

“Actually it is,” says Rodney. "It's just camouflaged. You see the island directly north of the lighthouse? It’s marked ‘Grahvadin’. That’s Dragon for Valkyrie. It literally means Battle Maiden.” 

John turns and reaches out to grasp Rodney’s wrist. “You know the Dragon Language?” He asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“I know lots of languages,” says Rodney smugly. 

“That’s more than a little impressive,” growls John, and his husky tone makes Rodney’s pulse quicken. So far he’s been somewhat cautious in front of the others, always congenial, of course, but avoiding any overt displays of affection or lust. It makes Rodney feel a little giddy that he’s being so forward. 

Jen clears her throat. “If the two of you could refrain from ravishing each other over the table for a few moments, I think we’re onto something here.” Rodney jerks back from where he’s been leaning into John and looks at her, his face and neck heating up. Jen reaches out to Ronon for the journal entry and peers at it for a moment. “Suppose we take the journal literally. ‘In the shadow of Yngvild’.” 

“Oh,” says Radek. “Yes, that would mean-” 

“-the sun rises in the east and casts it’s shadow westwards-” 

“-this small island directly west of Yngvild would be in the shadow of the barrow itself for much of the day.” 

Carson shifts in his seat and waves a hand. “Uh...does anyone think it awfully coincidental that we just happen to have met up here, in Dawnstar, right next to the place we’re looking for?” 

Teyla places a hand over Carson’s and stills him. “It feels like something has drawn us here for a reason.” 

“And that doesn’t concern anyone else?” 

“Not coincidental, healer,” says Ronon. “Fortuitous.” 

“It can only be a good thing that our journey is almost ended,” says Elizabeth. “All we have to do now is make our way to the island. I don’t particularly fancy a swim in the North Sea in the middle of winter. We’re going to need a rowboat.” 

“I’m not sure we have that kind of money,” says Rodney. “I have a few hundred gold left, but...” 

John squeezes Rodney’s arm a final time and stands. “I’ll acquire a boat. You all stay here and make a plan of action.” 

“John-” 

John bends down and speaks low in Rodney’s ear. “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

“I just don’t think you should go alone,” insists Rodney. 

“I’ll go with you,” says Ronon. “Whatever method you have in mind to acquire this boat, I can keep a lookout for trouble.” 

“I’d be glad to have you at my back, my friend,” says John, and in a matter of moments, he’s picked up his sword and shield and disappeared out of the sanctuary with Ronon on his tail. 

*** 

No one mentions the gaping hole that Aiden’s absence has left, but they don’t really need to. Secretly, Rodney thinks that this excursion is pointless without all of the avatars, but everyone else is preparing and so he does too. By mutual agreement, they’re keeping the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary as a fallback and travelling light, so Rodney leaves behind most of his potions and clothes and gold, and packs only his staff and a couple of healing potions. He fingers the crystal around his neck, debating whether it’s a take-with or a leave-behind, but it’s brought him good luck this far so he hangs on to it. John and Ronon return quickly, the boat moored right outside the sanctuary entrance. As they all climb inside, Jen runs back to free the horses from their hitching posts so that they can find their way back to civilisation or make their way into the wilds, whatever they so desire. John spends a long time saying goodbye to  Puddlejumper , removing her saddle and bridle and running his hands down her neck and face, finally whacking her on the rump to get her to run off. If he’s a little subdued when he gets in the boat, no one says anything; while none of the rest has that kind of attachment to their mount, they all understand the lasting bond between humans and animals just fine. 

The unnamed island isn’t far, it’s already in view when Ronon takes the oars and it looms closer minute by minute, wave by wave, until the underside of the rowboat scrapes on the shore, the pebbles crunching against the hull. With one last pull of the oars, Ronon beaches the boat and they all climb out onto the foreshore and make their way up to dry land. Rodney almost steps in a rockpool as he exits the boat but John pulls him clear of it at the last second, tugging him by the arm so that his foot lands on dry ground instead. Rodney’s grateful for his intervention – a cold wet foot in an icy place like this is never a good thing – and also thrilled that John chooses to walk next to him, so close that their shoulders bump with every step. John’s body is warm next to his, shielding him from the bitterly cold wind that’s pushing down the icy slopes and whipping their robes around them. 

“Where do you suppose we should start?” asks  Jen , bringing her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. There are no obvious signs of any kind of barrow or cave, no landmarks or traces of construction. 

“With the size of the island I suggest we simply follow the shore and see where it takes us,” says Teyla, and she and Ronon lead the way north. Rodney keeps close to John, carrying his staff in one hand and pulling his robe around himself with the other, tucking it in tight around his neck. It’s a cruel wind, the kind that turns sailors to rum and farmers to despair, and Rodney’s used to hiding inside when it gets like this, safe in front of a crackling fire with his schematics and research. Trundling around in the great outdoors is not his idea of a good time, but the rest of them seem to take it in their stride. 

The island is small, and it doesn’t take long for Ronon’s sharp eyes to find a hidden entrance, only it’s completely frozen over. Rodney wouldn’t have spotted it behind the ice, it lies so deep into the hill of the island, but once Ronon points it out it it’s unmistakably a cavern. All eyes fall to Rodney, master of destruction magic, and he sighs dramatically. 

“Sure, fine, of course it falls to me to melt an entire glacier.” 

“You can do it,” says John, squeezing his shoulder. “I have faith in you.” 

Rodney can’t disappoint John, so he positions himself in front of the ice and brings his staff up, pointing it at the hidden entrance. “Through the ice path,” he whispers to himself, and he lets out a stream of hot, burning fire. The ice starts to melt, watery rivers dripping into the snow below. Elizabeth joins him and aims her own fire spell at the ice, as does Radek, both weaker than Rodney of course, but every little helps. Carson joins in too, his own spell barely enough to light a campfire, but combined the four of them make short work of the rest of the ice, tunnelling through into a cold, underground cave. Rodney’s about to step through when Ronon stops him with an arm slung across his middle. 

“Wait,” he says. 

“What’s wrong?” asks Rodney. 

“No one has been here in a very long time, right?” 

“Well, that ice was incredibly thick, I’d say centuries, if not millennia.” 

“So why are  the braziers lit?” 

John steps between them and peers into the cave. “I think we’re expected,” he says, and he leads the way into the light, down a narrowing, rocky corridor that delves deep into the ground. The corridor opens out into a wide, rocky cavern, lit up by more braziers and the warped light of the sun streaming through an ice-covered hole in the ceiling. Rodney stops in the entrance, taking in the sight before him. 

“By the Nine,” exclaims Radek. 

In the centre of the cavern, lit up from all sides, is the artefact; a grand circle standing upright in the rock. It’s not stone, as they had all assumed, but metal, with dark orange chevrons spaced evenly around it. An inner ring boasts constellations, some recognisable but others unfamiliar. Rodney walks up to it and presses his hand to the stone. It’s cool but not cold, warmer than it should be in such a frozen place. Where it stands, it towers over the rest of the cavern, a grand, unnatural design inside a natural sanctuary. 

“I have found something,” says Teyla, pulling an old, dusty blanket off of a large plinth standing in the corner of the room. It’s a device, made of the same strange metal as the artefact, two concentric rings of symbols and a giant amber globe in the middle. The symbols mirror the ones on the artefact, and Rodney presses down on one at random but nothing happens. He tries another, then another, before stepping back and looking over the rest of the device. 

“Is it broken?” asks  Jen . 

Rodney kneels on the ground to look at something that catches his eye: some kind of panelling underneath the overhang. He pulls at it for a moment – "Come here you little...” - until John offers him his boot knife handle first. Rodney takes it and uses it to lever the panel off, gasps when it comes away to reveal a glowing plethora of brightly coloured hexagonal crystals slotted into some kind of matrix. Whatever technology that makes this device work, it’s like nothing he has ever seen before, and while he’s the foremost expert in a lot of things, it's going to take him some time to figure out what makes this thing tick. 

“This is definitely not Dwemer,” he says out loud. 

“I had thought the symbols on the artefact would somehow match up with our divine constellations,” says Elizabeth. “But I can’t see anything that looks even vaguely like my mark.” 

“No,” says Radek. “Nor mine. All those symbols on the device...there must be some kind of code to activate the artefact. I’m sure our markings are a part of it, I just don’t see how they fit.” 

“If it was that easy, we wouldn’t have all needed to come here,” says Rodney, pulling out a crystal and swirling it in his hands to check it over. He replaces it back where it came from. “Any Hod, Ralof or  Alvor could make it work if that was the case.” 

Jen crouches down next to Rodney and touches the outside of a large crystal with her fingers. “Sometimes you need to make allowances for us mere mortals, oh great one.” 

“Don’t touch that,” snaps Rodney, and he pushes  Jen ’s hand away from the plinth. “You could get hurt.” 

“Awww, you do care!” 

“Only in so far as you are necessary to complete our quest.” 

Rodney flips his hands in a universal go away gesture, and  Jen hauls herself back up on her feet using his shoulder for leverage. He turns his attention back to the device, his eyes on a long, flat slot to the side where something seems to be missing. He brushes it with his finger, trying to envision what could fit; nothing in his dreams alluded to a missing piece, another step to the quest they’re on. What if they’ve come all this way only to be hampered by something they missed? Something essential but so small they’ll never find it? 

A sudden rush of hot air knocks Rodney over and into the wall next to him. He stumbles, trying to get up, but something wills him to stay down. He looks up, catches movement in the entrance to the cavern, as a group of robed men enter and spread out like wolves around prey. John moves to stand in front of him, but between his legs Rodney catches the sight of the tall, redheaded figure from  Dawnstar passing between the cultists, her footsteps silent on the rocky ground. That it’s a woman is not as big a surprise as it could have been, but that she can compel him to the ground without even speaking a word is a little terrifying. 

“Seize him!” she commands. “Kill the rest.” 

There’s no doubt who ‘him’ is; none of her worshippers spares Rodney the barest glance as they swoop down on the rest of them. He tries to get up, but the force restraining him is too strong to fight. He strains as hard as he can against the invisible bindings, willing his legs to push up from the ground so he can defend himself. From his vantage point he can’t see everyone, but John’s holding his own against two assailants and Jen has cut one down in a single, bloody arc of her daggers. A cultist tries to sneak up on her and Rodney calls out - “Behind you!” - just in time for her to duck down low and swirl around, the blade in one hand finding its target in the man’s jugular. 

A sense of wrongness overwhelms Rodney, a feeling of loneliness and failure and defeat, and Rodney’s mind is invaded by a presence, unwilling and intrusive and oh so wrong. It’s a violation, like someone’s searching through the drawers of his mind for some long-forgotten knowledge, and he rebels against it even as the woman edges ever closer to him, her grip on his mind and body getting stronger with every step she takes. Just as suddenly as it started, so it ends with a well-timed assault from John; his sword clips the woman on the shoulder and as she turns in anger, Rodney is freed from her magic. He stands and hurls a lightning bolt at the woman, but she brushes it off as though it were nothing but mist. John gestures Rodney with his chin at a narrow passageway leading off from the main chamber of the cavern. Rodney hesitates, but the sight of the woman turning back to John gets him running. He’s a master wizard, but he’s no warrior. Not in the way his companions are. 

He runs. Away from the fighting, away from the sounds of metal on metal and magic hitting flesh. It’s just like Dawnstar, just like before when he had to hide while everyone else fought. He needs to help, needs to be a better fighter, a braver man. The cavern leads into a smaller chamber, this one full of burial urns and crates, long abandoned and forgotten. Rodney ducks down behind a row of urns, listens hard for the sound of footfall or the ragged breath of an exhausted fighter. No one comes. Not the woman, not the cultists, not John or any one of the rest. He tries to catch his breath, calm his nerves, regroup and think of a cunning plan to get his companions out of this mess. If there was something flammable he could- well, no, not without hitting the people he wants to save. What he really needs is a nice, big- 

Footsteps quicken his pulse. He peeks over the top of the urns, sees the woman limp into the chamber. She turns and spots him and he finally gets a direct look at her; her face pale and long and angular, strange indentations on either side of her nose. She hisses at him, her mouth filled with sharp, curved teeth, like a predator. Rodney starts to panic at the sight of her. He’s never seen anything like her and she has him cornered like a frightened rabbit. The woman steps closer and Rodney stumbles back away from her. He lifts his staff up in the air and hurls the first spell he can think of. It’s a fireball and it doesn’t even make contact with the woman’s body; it fizzles out against her raised and armoured wrists, even as she keeps walking. 

“Who are you?!” shouts Rodney. “What do you want?!” 

She doesn’t speak, just limps forward, backing him against the rocky wall until there’s nowhere to go. He summons his reserves and tries again, hurling a fireball with all his might out of the end of his staff. As it flies through the air, something makes a noise back the way the woman came from and her attention is diverted, just for a moment, but it’s enough for the fireball to hit her square in the chest and set her robes alight. She screams and hisses, an ungodly and unwomanly sound, and struggles to tear off her robes as the inferno gains momentum and burns through her clothing and hair. Rodney throws another barrage of flame, this one a continuous assault, compounding the fire of her robes until her skin starts to crackle and pop in the intense heat. His arms start to tire from the effort of controlling the flames, weak and shaky, and the strength it takes to channel all that Magicka has him feeling faint. He’s done this before, thrown everything he had at the Arch-Mage's steadfast ward to test the limits of both of their respective master-level skills, but it’s never been so important before, never meant so much. His life is on the line, his and John’s and Jen’s and everyone else's. He keeps it up until his Magicka reserves are well and truly drained, but it’s not enough to put her down for good. She rises up, still smouldering, her skin blackened and peeling, robes and hair burned away. She’s a burned husk of a woman, but still she moves and she starts slowly towards him again, her right arm outstretched. Even from a distance Rodney can see the deformity on her hand, some kind of slit in the palm. It pulsates and widens, a writing mass of tendrils and an unnatural yellow glow from within.

Rodney’s more than just magically drained; he’s exhausted beyond any kind of ability to defend himself. It’s all he can do to slide down the wall onto the floor and sit upright. He knows he should be afraid, but he’s just kind of resigned to the fact that he’s going to end up like all the other people this monster has assaulted. He looks up as she climbs the last steps and looms over him, the smell of her burnt flesh sickly sweet and nauseating. She reaches down and pulls the neck of his robes apart to expose his chest. Weakly he tries to wave his arms against her attack, but she just brushes them off. She pulls her blackened right hand back as far as it can go, then slams it forward and down onto his chest above his heart, her brittle fingernails scraping the crystal hanging from his neck as the deformity latches on. The pain is more than he was expecting and he screams out loud, his hands grasping her wrist feebly as the throbbing in his chest expands to the rest of his body. It feels like she’s pumped his veins full of acid in retaliation for his assault on her but there are no flames or any other kind of magic, just the dull rush of his life-force being drained out of him. 

As quickly as it began, it stops. The woman suddenly slumps forward and slides down his body until her head is in his lap. Rodney looks down and sees the arrow sticking out the back of her skull, rivers of red blood pouring out and flowing from the wound in her blackened scalp onto the stone below. The sound of rushed footsteps pours into the cavern, distant and anxious voices calling his name, but Rodney only has eyes for one man. Aiden is standing in the entryway with his bow aimed and an arrow nocked and drawn. 

“Alright, Scholar McKay?” he asks. 

Rodney gestures with one hand and nods his assent, then lets his head fall back against the wall as the others finally approach and remove the body of the woman from on top of him. John crouches in front of him and gently takes his head in both hands, wiping away the blood and the ash from his skin. He leans in and kisses him on the mouth, a gentle kiss full of worry and relief and love, then presses their foreheads together and sucks in a breath. 

“Rodney, I’m sorry, she got away from me. I-” 

“Shhhhh,” says Rodney. “M’fine.” 

Carson comes to stand next to Rodney. “How do you feel?” 

“Depends,” replies Rodney. “Am I old?” 

Both John and Carson peer at his face and chest, and Rodney looks down at the mark on his sternum, deathly afraid of what the answer will be, but they both shake their heads. 

“You look just fine to me,” says John. 

“Aye,” says Carson. “There’s no sign of deterioration.” 

Rodney closes his eyes briefly and nods. “I just need to sit for a minute while my Magicka restores itself.” 

Carson  hmmm’s and steps back, then makes his way over to take a look at the body of the woman where she’s been unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the cavern. John shifts so he’s sitting next to Rodney and takes his hand between both of his, pressing kisses to Rodney’s knuckles. 

“I couldn’t get to you,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “I saw her follow but I was surrounded. I thought-” 

“I’m fine, really,” says Rodney. “I’m just glad Aiden came back when he did.” 

“Yeah. It’s kind of hard to be mad with him when he saved my- uh, well, you.” 

Carson’s examination of the woman’s body turns up remarkably little, but it probably doesn't help that chunks of her flesh are sloughing off like so much cooked meat. Rodney can tell that Carson’s frustrated, but he can’t help being relieved. If she’s not in one piece, then not even the most powerful necromancer can bring her back to life. He wonders at the age of her, could she be the same Keeper of old? Or was the mantle passed down through the generations. She was remarkably youthful and well preserved if she’s the original Keeper, but stranger things have happened in Tamriel. One thing is very clear; she’s neither man nor mer, but something entirely different. 

Very slowly Rodney feels his strength return, the  Magicka that infuses the island seeping into his body and replenishing his strength. John sticks quietly by his side throughout his recovery and it’s a comfort. Never before has he drained himself so thoroughly as today, and he’s surprised to have found his limit. The Keeper must be strong indeed to withstand all of his raw power. 

“Rodney?” comes a voice from right in front of Rodney’s nose and he opens his eyes to see Aiden looking at him with worry in all the features of his face. 

“Glad you came back,” says Rodney. 

“Me too,” says John. “Your timing is impeccable.” 

“I, uh,” begins Aiden. “I didn’t get far, to be honest. I came back to the sanctuary to find it overrun with those cultists and the woman. I figured they’d know where you had gone and would follow you so I followed them. Snuck aboard their boat and let them bring me all the way here.” 

Elizabeth appears from inside the corridor and coughs to get everyone’s attention, her new dagger hanging bloody from her right hand. “I cut all their throats, just to be sure. What say we get on with what we came here for?” 

Rodney catches John looking him over, raises a sarcastic eyebrow against his fussing. “I’m fine, John.” 

“I know you are.” 

“Help me up?” 

Everyone follows Elizabeth back down the corridor to the main cavern with the artefact, and there are a lot of warm greetings for Aiden who looks relieved not to be raked over the coals for his abandonment, though still he looks ashamed of his actions. Rodney can’t hold it against him; he had good reason to have second thoughts about the people he was travelling with. 

Back in the main chamber, Rodney heads back to the device in the corner, eager to get this show on the road, if only he can figure out the puzzle of the empty slot. Just as he slides down to his knees in front of the open panel, there’s a subtle change in the air, a kind of unnatural stillness that chills him to the bone, and he peers over the top of the device to check on his companions only to see them all standing still mid-action.  So statue-like and surprising are they that he almost misses the mammoth in the room; a throng of writhing black tentacles and eyes floating in the centre of the artefact as though it belongs there, confident and sure of itself and brimming with guile. The mass is shrouded in an aura of green mist and floating black liquid, like someone spilled a barrel of ink and turned off the gravity. In the very centre is one particularly large double-irised eye, stark and unblinking and seemingly the source of the mass’s intelligence.

“Uh...hello?” says Rodney, trying not to look too hard at his companions for fear of alerting this being to their importance. 

“You trespass here, Mage of Winterhold,” it says, it’s voice deep and slow, like warm treacle. 

After his altercation with the Keeper, Rodney can’t bring himself to be afraid of this grotesque being. “Something tells me that so do you. Who are you?” 

“I am the Gardener of Men, the gatekeeper of the Apocrypha, the-” 

“Ah,” interrupts Rodney. “You are Hermaeus Mora, Deadric Prince of knowledge. If you’re appearing before me, then I have something you want.” 

“I have been watching you for some time, mortal. I knew you would come to this place, sooner or lat-” 

“Cut to the chase,” snaps Rodney, impatient to get this meeting over with. Repartee with the Deadric Princes is always rife with missteps and trickery. “What is it that you want?” 

“I’ve come to make you an offer.” 

“I’m not interested.” 

“No?” booms Hermaeus Mora. “I can offer you knowledge beyond your wildest dreams.” 

“You have no knowledge that can tempt me, Deadric Prince!” 

“Only I  possess the knowledge you need to activate the Astria Porta.” 

“Tempting, but no doubt you’ll want my eternal soul in exchange, and I’m not willing to part with that, so if you please...” 

“You shall not evade me forever.” 

“If I’m right, I’m about to travel so far that even your reach can’t touch me and you know it, otherwise you wouldn’t have tried to bargain with me. You’ve had nothing to say my whole life and you turn up on the cusp of my greatest discovery? I’ll not be fooled by your trickery, demon. Begone!” 

With an ominous pop, Hermaeus Mora disappears into itself and in a sudden rush everyone springs back into motion, none the wiser for Rodney’s meeting with a  Deadric Prince. He decides not to enlighten them, it will only delay their objective here even longer, and the sooner they get the artefact working the better. He just has to- With a start, something clicks into place Rodney’s mind. Whatever Hermaeus Mora wanted must have been something Rodney could put his hands on easily, which implies that the means to get the device working must be within his grasp. It’s already here, inside the cavern somewhere, maybe even- He reaches into his robes where the crystal from Calcelmo keeps pressing against the wound on his chest. It’s flat and otherworldly, exactly the kind of thing he’s looking for. This is no  Dwemer artefact, and while it’s unlike the crystals already in the device, it just might fit into the solitary slot. He pulls it over his head and slides it into place, the leather cord hanging down from the outermost edge. It’s a perfect fit, and as it slides home the amber globe in the middle of the device starts to glow. 

“Woah,” says  Jen . 

Radek gives Rodney his hand and helps him up. “You have done it, my friend.” 

“Now we just need to figure out the combination of symbols,” says Rodney. 

“Well, there are nine of us,” says Elizabeth. “And nine Divines. So it would make sense for there to be nine symbols.” 

“Thirty-eight symbols in total,” says  Jen. 

“So there are fifty-nine trillion combinations,” says Rodney. “There’s no way we can just go through them to find the right one.” 

Teyla brushes a hand over the device. “Many of these are constellations in the night sky.” 

“I suspect all of them are constellations,” says Rodney. “But some must be only visible from the southern hemisphere. Do any of them look familiar in another context?” 

Everyone looks at the symbols on the device, sometimes tracing them with their fingers. Radek takes rubbings of each one and lays them out on the ground, reordering them seemingly randomly. Teyla pulls Elizabeth to the side and they talk in hushed tones. It’s not until John clears his throat that Rodney realises he was staring at the device, eyes fixed on the glowing amber globe. 

“Uh...” says John. 

“Hmmm?” asks Rodney. 

John rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I...uh...might recognise one of them.” 

“Which one?” 

John points at a symbol on the device. “This one.” 

“This one looks like the constellation of The Lord,” says Ronon. 

“Yeah. It, uh...I mean...Rodney has some freckles in that pattern. I mean, other than the ones on his wrist.” 

Rodney folds his arms. “I think I would have noticed if I had-” 

“It’s on your ass,” says John, blushing furiously. 

“My-” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh. Oh my. You know, now that I think about it, those moles on your back kind of resemble The Tower. If you squint.” 

“This is good,” says Ronon. He calls everyone over. “I think we’re on to something.” 

“Uh,” says Rodney. “It turns out that I have this constellation-” he points at the same one John did, “-on my...uh...person. And John has The Tower on his back. Does anyone else have anything like that? A constellation of freckles or moles in the shape of any of the ancient birth signs?” 

Radek raises his hand. “Actually, I did not think of this, but I have something resembling The Mage on my left leg.” 

“Anyone else?” Everyone else shakes their heads. “Okay, so we’re going to have to have a show and tell.” 

“You mean...?” says Elizabeth. 

“If you, Teyla and  Jen would go to the other chamber and maybe take a look at each other...uh...for symbols and whatnot. We’ll do the same here.” 

*** 

To no one’s surprise, Jen has the symbol of the Lover on her skin. Carson has The Ritual, Elizabeth The Lady, Teyla The Serpent, Ronon The Warrior and Aiden The Steed. In hindsight it’s so obvious that they’d all be sporting a symbol each, why else would they all have needed to come? But if those birth marks are the symbols on the device, then the marks of the Divines on their wrists must determine the order, because nine symbols can still be arranged nearly three hundred and sixty-three thousand ways. 

“Maybe it’s alphabetical?” suggests Aiden. 

“ Akatosh , Arkay, Dibella,  Julianos ,  Kynareth , Mara,  Stendarr , Talos,  Zenithar ?” says  Jen . 

“How did you do that so fast?” 

“I grew up in a monastery. You’re not the only one with dead parents.” 

“Can we focus, please?” snaps Rodney. 

“There is only one order that makes sense,” says Elizabeth. “How many of us have read the Ten Commands of the Nine Divines?” 

“it’s worth a try,” says Radek. “Rodney, would you?” 

Rodney hovers a hand over the device. “What’s first?” he asks. 

“ Stendarr ,” says Elizabeth. 

Rodney looks to Ronon for his constellation.

“The Warrior,” says Ronon. 

Rodney presses the Warrior symbol, and instantly something happens to the artefact. With an overpowering sound of metal grinding on metal, the inner ring starts to rotate slowly inside the artefact. The noise is thunderous and the whole cavern trembles with the vibrations, little puffs of ice dropping down from the ceiling and landing all around them. It stops as suddenly as it started, and one of the orange chevrons clips down over a symbol on the inner ring, glowing bright orange.

“Okay, that worked,” says Rodney. “Next!” 

“Arkay,” says Elizabeth. 

“The Ritual,” says Carson, stepping closer. 

Rodney presses the symbol and the ring spins again, this time when it stops the next chevron around engages and glows. 

“Mara,” says Elizabeth, before Rodney can ask. “The Lady.” 

Rodney presses The Lady and the cycle repeats until a third chevron engages. The tension is palpable as Rodney presses the other symbols in order,  Zenithar (The Mage), Talos (The Tower),  Kynareth (The Serpent), Dibella (The Lover),  Julianos (The Lord), and finally  Stendarr (The Steed). Rodney thinks it’s fitting that the one who left and then returned is the last symbol to press as the artefact spins a final time, the last chevron on the circle engaging and glowing. In a blink of an eye, the centre of the ring fills with water which whooshes out towards them in a giant wave before falling back in on itself, forming a puddle contained within the artefact. It ripples like the wind disturbing the surface of a lake and glows blue, so bright against even the light of the braziers in the cavern. They all approach with their hands out in front of them, touching the surface of the puddle all at once. 

“It’s not water,” says Elizabeth. 

“It’s like liquid light,” says  Jen . 

Aiden pushes his arm through, all the way up to the shoulder. 

“How does it feel?” asks John. 

“Uh...hurts like hell,” says Aiden, but his big grin contradicts his words. 

“Are we really doing this?” asks Teyla, looking from side to side. It’s the first hesitation Rodney’s heard from her, but he already knows that she won’t back down now. 

“I think we are,” says Ronon. 

“Well, no time like the present,” says Carson, and before anyone can stop him, he slips through the wall of light and vanishes without a trace. 

“Shor’s bones,” says Aiden, and he follows Carson through immediately after. 

Ronon turns to  Jen and holds out a hand. “Together?” he says. 

“Together,” agrees  Jen , and they walk through as one. 

Elizabeth brushes her hand down the blue wall, it’s surface rippling under her fingers. She hesitates, but when Radek grabs her arm and squeezes she turns and smiles. They, too, walk through together, followed closely by Teyla who jumps through with her weapons ready, just in case. 

Rodney and John are left standing in front of the artefact and its wall of light, neither one making the move to step through. Rodney turns to face John, who is already looking at him, and smiles. When John holds out a hand, Rodney takes it, feels his walm, dry palm and the strength in his fingers.

“This is it,” says Rodney glancing at the artefact then back at John again. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you ready?” 

John leans in to kiss Rodney gently, then presses their foreheads together and grins. “Yeah,” he says. “You?” 

“I am,” says Rodney, more certain than he was a minute ago. 

“On three. One...two...”

Rodney tightens his grips on John and steps forward into the blue light.


End file.
